The Appearance of Hermione Granger
by Lil Drop Of Magic
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is most intrigued when he observes three teenagers materialise in the middle of a central London road. He is even more interested when, eighteen months later, one of these strange individuals moves into 221C Baker Street.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Harry Potter, Sherlock Holmes or the BBC series Sherlock.

* * *

Prologue

If Sherlock hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would have believed it impossible. But his eyes and brain _did_ perceive it and therefore it most certainly did happen; three adolescents appeared out of nowhere into the middle of a busy road in central London.

It was only chance that Sherlock saw them at all. He was in a taxi, pursuing a suspect in a murder case, when he'd become concerned that the man had escaped on foot through the pandemonium of Piccadilly Circus. He had turned to look over his shoulder through the rear window and it was at that moment that the three people materialized into existence. There were two boys (one dark haired, the other red) on either side of a girl with medium length brown hair and they were all holding hands. They were facing away from him, which was lucky for them otherwise they might not have noticed the red London bus that was about to run them over.

As they swept themselves out of the bus' path, Sherlock was able to catch a glimpse of their young faces and formal attire before they were blocked from his view.

"Where to next, guv?" asked the cabbie, bringing Sherlock back to his chase. He looked ahead and spotted the taxi his suspect was in turning down Great Windmill Street.

"Left," he instructed, casting a last pointless look up Shaftesbury Avenue to catch sight of the teenagers but the pavements were too busy.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock was frogmarching the suspect (a rather tiresome individual of minute intelligence) through the front door of Scotland Yard.

"I wanna see a lawyer," the man whined for the seventh time. "You can't do this to me – I ain't done a thing."

"Be quiet," Sherlock snapped, irritated by the man.

The sergeant on duty at the front desk raised his eyebrows in surprise at the unexpected arrival. Sherlock pushed the suspect against the edge of the desk with slightly more force than necessary. "I have a delivery for Inspector Lestrade," he explained smoothly. "Call him immediately." The sergeant opened his mouth, seemingly offended at being ordered around by a member of the public, but before the officer could protest Sherlock fixed him with a withering look. "Or if you'd prefer to take your time about it I look forward to watching you explain to your superiors why you prevented the arrest of the main suspect in the Amelia Barnes case."

The sergeant's eyes widened and he grabbed hold of the phone and started dialling at once while the man pinned to the desk exclaimed, "Main suspect! You're 'aving a laugh, mate."

"I'm afraid the state of your front left pocket and your preference for herbal cigarettes with a strong cinnamon flavour would prove otherwise, _mate_," Sherlock replied.

A set of double doors burst open as DI Lestrade strode into view followed closely by DS Donovan. "Finally," Sherlock muttered, before thrusting the man in the direction of the detectives, nearly causing Donovan to be knocked to the ground. "Now that that's finished I have some other business to attend to," he announced to nobody in particular and walked past Lestrade and Donovan into the inner part of the Yard.

"Sherlock, wait!" yelled Lestrade. Sherlock considered ignoring him as the Inspector was only going to say something tedious but the sound of following footsteps told him that Lestrade wasn't going to go away easily.

He stopped and turned back to the detective with an air of great impatience. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

"How many times do I have to tell you, you can't just go off on a merry chase after a criminal without police approval," Lestrade growled.

"Why not? It works," Sherlock pointed out.

"Because one of these days you're going to get in over your head and there will be no one there to save your skin." Lestrade shook his head. "You're not invincible, Sherlock."

"Thank you for your concern, Inspector. Now, if you'll excuse me." He turned on his heel and carried on to his destination. The continuation of Lestrade's footsteps made him frown. "I just handed you a murderer, Lestrade," he called, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

"You did," Lestrade agreed.

"Then why am _I_ the one to be under your scrutiny?"

"Sherlock, you and I both know that you have absolutely no permission to be anywhere in this building." Sherlock started climbing a set of stairs and Lestrade jogged a few paces to block his way. "Where are you going?"

"I want to view some of this evening's CCTV from Piccadilly Circus," Sherlock explained truthfully.

Lestrade frowned. "Why?"

Before Sherlock could fob him off, a constable ran up looking nervous. "Sir?"

"What?" Lestrade snapped.

"Chief Inspector Chalmers wants to know why you are not overseeing the questioning of your murder suspect," the constable said and Lestrade cursed.

Sherlock walked round the irritated detective and continued his journey up the stairs. "Have a good evening, Lestrade," he said mildly as he passed.

"You've got ten minutes before I get someone to pull you out," Lestrade called up the stairs after him. "You hear me? Ten minutes."

Thirty minutes later Sherlock was still staring at the monitor in front of him, frustrated that he couldn't find video evidence to back up what his eyes had observed an hour ago. Despite Piccadilly Circus being one of the busiest junctions in London, none of the CCTV cameras were trained on where the three young people had appeared out of thin air. He was able to find and follow them along Shaftesbury Avenue but there wasn't any sign of them before that either.

He watched again as the female led the way through the bustling crowd. All three of them seemed pretty unremarkable though it was likely that they had come from a formal event given their attire. The clothing of the males had a distinctly old-fashioned look that brought to mind a wedding. They moved quickly through the crowd, throwing anxious looks at each other before they turned down an alleyway and he lost sight of them.

He left New Scotland Yard shortly afterwards and headed back to Piccadilly Circus. All the tourist shops and restaurants were closed by now though there was still enough traffic to stop him from investigating the spot where the three of them had materialized. Through the windows of the darkened shops he could make out in-store security cameras and he resolved to return there first thing in the morning.

The staffs of the shops were only too happy to show him their footage once he'd waved the warrant card he'd pinched off of Lestrade the previous evening.

Annoyingly, the cameras seemed to be solely trained on what was happening on the inside of the stores. There was very little footage of anything outside and all that he _could_ see past the windows was of the crowds walking past.

He was not going to get the proof he needed that three people had emerged out of nothing but he knew it had happened. He had seen it. The important question now was how had it happened? As far as he was aware there hadn't been a scientific breakthrough that allowed teleporting from one place to another. He almost texted his brother Mycroft just to check but then he remembered that he _hated_ getting in contact with Mycroft.

Perhaps it had been a conjuring trick. It was easy to use mirrors to make something instantly appear – though it was a poorly publicised illusion if he was the only one to have noticed.

He closed his eyes and focused his mind on what he had seen the previous evening. The three adolescents appeared and walked quickly to the side. The momentum they moved with suggested that they had been moving in that direction before their dramatic arrival.

He imagined that most people would have some sort of mental break down if they were to suddenly find themselves in a completely different place. But not these three. They were aware of what had happened and had most probably instigated it themselves.

And Sherlock had absolutely no idea how they did it.

* * *

A/N Thank you for not giving up and getting this far!

You probably can't watch Piccadilly Circus CCTV footage at Scotland Yard but I wasn't sure where you _would_ go so, sorry about that.

Anyway, please let me know what you think!

Lots of love,

Lil Drop of Magic


	2. Chapter One - The Reappearance

A/N Thank you everyone for all the follows, favourites and especially the reviews! It really means a lot.

* * *

Chapter One - The Reappearance

18 Months Later

Hermione nervously knocked on the front door of the flat on Baker Street. She didn't understand why she was nervous. She'd faced many terrifying things in her life but looking around a place that she could potentially move in to shouldn't be up there with her many life risking adventures.

Unconsciously, she rubbed her left forearm. Despite it being nearly a year since Hermione had been subjected to the torture of Bellatrix Lestrange, the word 'mudblood' had faded very little. It was rare that Hermione would wear anything with short sleeves but she still covered the scars with a glamour spell every morning anyway.

There was the sound of approaching feet and Hermione forced a smile onto her face. The door opened to reveal a small woman of advanced years, who mercifully looked somewhat kindly.

"Mrs Hudson?" Hermione enquired and the woman nodded. "I'm Hermione Granger. We spoke earlier on the phone."

"Oh, yes of course, dear." Mrs Hudson opened the door further and beckoned for Hermione to come in. "Goodness. I didn't realise how young you were but that's the thing about telephones – you can never tell what the person on the other end is like." Hermione followed the landlady through another door into a rather dimly lit corridor. "The room's just this way, dear."

"Thank you."

Mrs Hudson walked towards the end of the corridor and took out a key to undo the padlock of a door which read 221C. Hermione cast a curious look up the staircase, wondering what lay up there.

"Mind your step," Mrs Hudson warned as she led the way down to the basement flat. Hermione registered a noticeable drop in temperature as she descended but she was sure it was nothing that a simple heating charm couldn't fix.

"I'm afraid it hasn't been lived in for a while," Mrs Hudson said, almost apologetically, as they surveyed the bare walls.

"The damp isn't too bad," Hermione commented, taking in a deep breath.

Mrs Hudson fiddled nervously with her necklace.

"My uncle works in damp removal," Hermione continued, placing her hand against one of the walls. "I'm sure he could come over and get rid of it in no time."

"You – you're interested in the flat then, Miss Granger?" Mrs Hudson asked in surprise.

"Please call me Hermione," she said with a smile. "Once the damp is gone and a bit of cleaning and paint is applied it will do perfectly." Hermione had plenty of recent experience in repair and decorating thanks to her help in restoring Hogwarts. Compared to a 1000 year old magical castle, this place would be an absolute doddle – not that she'd be telling Mrs Hudson that.

"Oh, wonderful," the landlady said breathlessly.

"Can I enquire about the cooking and bathroom facilities?" Hermione asked, inspecting a mirror that stood in the corner of the room.

"I'm afraid there are none in this particular flat," Mrs Hudson said wringing her hands slightly. "You would have to share with my tenants upstairs. I'm sure they wouldn't mind. One of them's a doctor, you know. He was in the army too before he got shot."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Is he all right?"

Mrs Hudson smiled. "Oh, yes. He had a walking stick to begin with but Sherlock proved that it was a psycho-or-other limp within a few hours and Dr Watson hasn't used it since."

"Sherlock?" Hermione questioned, moving the curtain aside to look up at the pavement of Baker Street.

"Oh, he's my other tenant," Mrs Hudson explained. "He's…well, he's Sherlock. Would you like to see the kitchen and bathroom now?"

Hermione agreed and followed Mrs Hudson up a couple of flights of stairs until they were on the first floor. Mrs Hudson put her hand on the doorknob, then paused and turned back to Hermione.

"Let me just see if they're in, dear." Mrs Hudson suggested. Before Hermione could make a comment she slipped inside with a breezy, "Ooh-ooh!" and closed the door again.

Hermione looked around at the bamboo-print wallpaper. Through a door to her left she could hear things hurriedly being put away.

Mrs Hudson appeared a minute later. "Come in, Hermione dear, come in. This is Dr John Watson."

Hermione walked into a relatively large lounge area that was nicely decorated and furnished, if somewhat cluttered. A man, on the cusp of being middle-aged offered his hand in welcome.

"Hello, I'm Hermione Granger," she said, shaking his hand.

"God, you're young," John said, then laughed. "Sorry, I mean, nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too," Hermione replied.

"I understand you're interested in the flat downstairs."

Hermione nodded.

"I'd like to apologise in advance for the state of the kitchen – Sherlock and I aren't very domesticated," John warned as he walked her through to the adjoining room.

"Oh, so you two are a – " Hermione began but John cut her off.

"We're not a couple," he insisted, shaking his head with exasperation before muttering, "Every time."

"Sorry," Hermione muttered, feeling embarrassed. She turned her attention to the kitchen. The table and work surfaces were very difficult to make out due to the myriad of different objects that covered them. She wondered what John and Mrs Hudson had been clearing away when she'd been waiting outside. "You seem to have a lot of possessions," she commented, picking up a rack of empty test tubes.

"It's Sherlock's stuff, not mine," John explained.

Hermione put the test tubes back down on the table but then something caught her eye. Underneath a two-week-old copy of the Financial Times she fished out a small glass vial. "Are those toe nails?" she asked, looking at the contents in surprise. Her years of handling various animal body parts for her potions lessons meant that she was squeamish about very little, but she still found it rather distasteful to have vials of human toenails on a kitchen table.

John frowned in irritation and took the vial from her, shoving it in a drawer. Various clinking noises told her that there were probably more unsavoury items hidden within. "Like I said, it's all Sherlock's."

"I see. What does he do, exactly?" Hermione asked, trying not to sound too curious as Mrs Hudson pottered around making cups of tea.

"He calls himself a consulting detective," John replied. "Here, the bathroom's this way."

"So people hire him to investigate things?" Hermione said.

"Yes. And he's bloody brilliant at it too. I've never met anyone like him," John said, opening the bathroom door. "The hot tap of the bath can be a bit stiff but everything else is in perfect working order."

"Thank you," Hermione replied as she looked around, taking stock of the dimensions and toiletries. "What makes him so brilliant?"

"He uses this thing called, 'The Science of Deduction'. He's incredibly observant and logical. He can look at someone for a couple of seconds and tell you almost their entire life story," John explained, accepting a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson.

"That's amazing," Hermione said, impressed.

"Yep," John agreed. "But it does make you frequently want to punch him. Hard."

"How do you take your tea, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"White, one sugar, please," Hermione replied, feeling slightly disconcerted. If this Sherlock man was so intelligent then was it likely that he would discover her secret? Perhaps she should find somewhere else to live. No, there was no need to be hasty. This flat was in a prime location, not too expensive and there was something about Mrs Hudson and John that she liked straight away. If her secret was discovered then she could always perform a memory charm – they were her speciality after all. "Thank you," she said, accepting the cup of tea.

"So what do you do?" John asked, as the three of them settled into chairs in the lounge.

"I suppose I'm a civil servant," Hermione answered. "I work in an animal department; ensuring that they're properly cared for, dangerous breeds are restricted, animal rights and things like that."

"That's impressive," John commented after a sip of tea. "How long have you been in the job?"

"Actually, I haven't started yet. My first day is next week. I only finished my schooling a few days ago," she explained but elaborated seeing the confused look on John's face. "I know the end of February is a funny time of year to complete my exams but last year was a bit disrupted for a variety of reasons. I worked all summer and my headmistress pulled a few strings so I could take my exams early."

"Was it your O-Levels, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked. "I never did very well on any tests."

"I think you mean, A-levels," John corrected. Mrs Hudson waved her hand dismissively.

"My school offers a different qualification, in truth." Hermione said. "Luckily my results were good enough for me to be accepted into the department straight away. My headmistress also wrote me a very nice reference, which helped, I'm sure. Speaking of…" She picked up her handbag and retrieved an envelope from inside. "This is a reference for you, Mrs Hudson. I don't know if it's strictly necessary but I understand that teenagers don't have the greatest reputation for reliability and maturity. I hope that this will ease any qualms you might have that I would be an unsuitable tenant."

"Goodness, Hermione dear. I never, yes, thank you," Mrs Hudson said. "Well, if you're quite sure that you want to move in then we'd better discuss the details. We'll leave you to it, Dr Watson."

* * *

"Any luck?" John called to his flatmate without looking up from his laptop. He frowned at the opening sentence of his blog before shaking his head and pressing down on the backspace key.

A frozen severed thumb landed on the keyboard in front of him, making him jump slightly. "You know, most people use words to communicate," he chided, carefully removing the offending appendage from his laptop.

"Most people are idiots," Sherlock retorted, sinking dramatically into a chair.

"So what's the next step?" John asked. He turned around to face Sherlock, knowing there was no point in trying to focus on his blog now.

"There is no next step. The case isn't worth my time," Sherlock announced, picking up his violin and plucking a couple of strings.

John groaned quietly. When Sherlock wasn't preoccupied with a case he was a complete pain in the arse – even more so than usual.

"Who's sat in this chair?" Sherlock asked suddenly, piercing John with an annoyed glance. "No. Don't tell me." His eyes lost focus for a split second before the annoyance returned. "What was a young woman doing here?"

"How did you…?" John sighed. "Never mind. Mrs Hudson has got a tenant for the basement. Hermione Granger she's called, only just left school."

Sherlock's look of annoyance evolved into one of great distaste. "A teenaged girl. Get me my revolver, John."

"You don't even know her, Sherlock!" John admonished. "She actually seems remarkably mature for her age – employed in the civil service already, something to do with animals. She gave a reference letter from her old headmistress to Mrs Hudson; apparently she achieved the highest exam results at that school for fifty years."

"Swot," Sherlock muttered.

"She'll be here in a couple of days to move in so make sure you give her a chance," John warned. Sherlock continued to pluck strings. "_Sherlock._"

"Why should I change my behaviour for some girly know-it-all when I never bother for anyone else?" Sherlock pointed out.

John looked at the defrosting thumb and sighed.

* * *

Sherlock could sense John's displeasure from across the room. It was very irritating. "What?" he asked.

John looked up, startled. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking something," Sherlock said. "And that's worse."

"How is that worse?" John asked in bewilderment, coming to stand by his friend as Sherlock peered down into his petri dish.

"Once something is voiced, the other person can respond and the matter can move on. However, if the first person decides to sulkily keep the thought locked in their mind whatever issue they have will not be resolved and the air of disappointment you have created will not disappear any time soon," Sherlock explained without raising his gaze.

"I'm not sulki-" John cleared his throat. "Look, I just think you're being a little rude."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, not fazed in the slightest. "How?"

"Well, Hermione's been down there decorating for the last three days and you haven't gone to introduce yourself," John pointed out.

"She hasn't made the effort to introduce herself to _me_," Sherlock argued. "Perhaps she's the one being rude."

"She's a bit busy damp proofing, wall papering and painting."

"Yes, well I'm busy too."

"No you're not," John said, taking a seat at the kitchen table opposite Sherlock. "Besides, she _has_ tried to introduce herself but every time you hear her coming up the stairs you find a ridiculous excuse to go to your room."

"There's nothing ridiculous about making sure ones bed sheets are changed frequently; it's good hygiene," Sherlock said.

"Of course," John sighed. "Anyway, she's going to bring all her possessions round later. I said we'd help her carry things in."

Sherlock finally looked up with an expression of great irritation. "Why would you do that? I haven't volunteered for any heavy lifting."

"Because it's _polite_," John stressed. "We're being good neighbours."

"Why can't her friends help?" Sherlock asked.

"What friends?"

"The reference letter she gave to Mrs Hudson mentioned that she proved to be the most loyal of friends to her fellow students. Well, where are these friends of hers?"

"They're probably busy at school or something like that. It is the middle of the week after all," John pointed out. "Hang on, when did you read that letter? I thought you weren't interested in anything to do with Hermione."

"I'm not," Sherlock insisted. "Mrs Hudson read some of it at me when she brought me a cup of tea.

"Oh. Well, her friends aren't here and we are so you're going to be helping whether you like it or not," John said, hoping the matter was settled.

It was not.

"Are you attracted to her?" Sherlock asked in an accusatory tone. "Are you insisting on being helpful so that it'll impress her?"

"What?! She makes me feel about eighty!" John protested.

"That's not what I asked," Sherlock replied shortly.

"She's nearly young enough to be my daughter, Sherlock."

"Your avoidance of answering the question seems to provide an answer in itself even if you won't admit it." Sherlock stood and returned the petri dish to the fridge. "If you like I'll tell you whether your pupils dilate when you look at her. Then you won't be able to deny it."

"No. I wouldn't like you tell me," John replied angrily. "You know what, forget it. Don't bother helping."

"But I'm interested in seeing what qualities you find attractive in this young woman," Sherlock said, exiting the kitchen and beginning to walk down the stairs. "It's obviously not her decorating knowledge."

John followed quickly. "What do you mean?"

"It would take about six months to effectively remove the damp from these types of walls so wallpapering and painting them so soon is counterproductive, let alone rather idiotic." He'd reached the door to 221C and rapped sharply on it.

"Just a minute!" A voice called in reply.

"Don't be rude, Sherlock," John said in an almost pleading tone. "She's only just moved in."

"She'll have to get used to me then, won't she?"

There were footsteps on the stairs, the clicking of a lock and then the door was opened. A young woman with bushy brown hair, dark eyes and a somewhat nervous expression on her slender face stood before him and he instantly recognised her; the girl from Shaftesbury Avenue, the one who had appeared from nowhere.

It had been a while since he'd reviewed the black and white footage from the CCTV cameras but there was no mistaking that it was her. He was momentarily speechless. What was someone with teleport-like capabilities doing here in 221C Baker Street?

The girl's eyes slid past him to John and recognition dawned in her eyes. "You must be Sherlock." She smiled tentatively and held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Hermione."

Sherlock recovered quickly and shook her hand, instantly analysing all he could about her appearance. "Welcome to Baker Street. I'm most interested to meet you."

John flinched next to him, fearing that Sherlock was referring to his supposed attraction but he was unaware that Sherlock found her interesting for a completely different reason.

"We thought we'd come and see if we could help," John said and Hermione's smile grew wider.

"That's very kind of you. Come in, the decorating is mostly done. The next step is moving my possessions and furniture in."

Sherlock followed Hermione down the stairs, noting that the stairway had been re-plastered and painted a pale gold colour. The bulb that used to hang down had been removed and a new light fitting was in place.

"What do you think?" Hermione asked, showing them into the room.

"Wow. You've done all this in two and a half days?!" John asked in amazement while Sherlock walked slowly around the walls. The gold theme was continued in here with touches of red on the new wallpaper. A new carpet had been fitted and despite Sherlock's intense search for it, there wasn't a hint of damp in the place.

"I'm a fast worker," Hermione admitted with a slight shrug. "Once I set my mind to a task there's not a lot that will distract me from completing it."

"Impressive," John nodded. "Very impressive."

"Well, my uncle helped a bit," Hermione said, smoothing down an imaginary bubble in one of the walls. "And I do have some experience in redecorating."

"It's a very professional finish," Sherlock said. "I'm sure your parents will be proud of you when they see it."

"Oh, no," Hermione said, her mood becoming decidedly more sombre. "My parents moved to Australia about eighteen months ago and they've got no immediate plans to come back."

"I see," Sherlock said and there was an uncomfortable pause, not that he noticed.

"What do you want us to do to help?" John asked brightly, trying to lighten the mood.

Hermione cast a look around the room. "Actually, I think I'm alright. There's nothing more to be done until my things arrive. I was just going to have some lunch and go and get everything."

"Okay then, well let us know when you're back so we can help," John offered.

"I will, thank you," Hermione replied. "Is there anywhere good round here to get lunch? I'm not very familiar with this area of London."

"You know, I'm rather peckish myself," Sherlock announced. "We'll come too, keep you company."

"Thank you," Hermione sounded surprised. "That…that would be lovely."

"Excellent," Sherlock said as John sent him a suspicious look. "Let me fetch my coat and then we can be on our way." He exited the room with John hot on his heels.

"What are you doing?" John asked when they were out of Hermione's earshot.

"I'm being welcoming to our new neighbour," Sherlock replied.

"No. You're up to something," John said with certainty.

"Maybe I'm just hungry."

"_Sherlock._"

"Your pupils did dilate by the way," Sherlock told him, putting his arms through his coat. "You owe me twenty pounds."

"But we didn't even make a bet!"

* * *

"John told me you're a consulting detective, Sherlock. It sounds very interesting," Hermione said, before taking a sip of her tea. "I didn't realise such a profession existed."

"I invented it," Sherlock replied simply.

"Oh, and the police don't mind you carrying out your own investigations?" She asked.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, causing John to choke on his sandwich. Hermione laughed at the annoyed look on Sherlock's face. "Well, I'm not everyone's favourite person in the world but they're too stupid to recognise my genius."

Hermione gave John a look that seemed to question Sherlock's sanity but John just smiled and nodded.

"Your genius?" she asked.

"Yes, my genius. I'm quite brilliant."

"But not modest," John put in.

"What would be the point of that?" Sherlock asked puzzled. "People come to me because of my mind. If I pretend that it's not all that impressive then they wouldn't seek me out and their problems would never be solved."

"And now you understand why everyone at Scotland Yard hates him," John said conclusively.

Sherlock glared at him. "They don't all hate me."

"No, you're right," John agreed. "Lestrade, at least, finds you tolerable when you're not withholding police evidence and disappearing to confront serial killers."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "What?!"

"Yep. Did you hear about those serial suicides a few weeks ago?" John asked.

"No," Hermione replied, shaking her head.

"Oh, really?" John frowned. "They were all over the news."

"My school's quite isolated," Hermione explained apologetically. "We never had much contact with the outside world and I was revising very hard for my exams too."

"I see. Well, there were these deaths in London that all looked like unrelated suicides," John started to explain and Hermione listened in fascination. "I met Sherlock just before the last one happened and before I know it we're racing all over the city and Sherlock proves that they were all murders."

"John, that is the worst possible recount of the events," Sherlock said scathingly. "Where is the detail? Why didn't you mention how I deduced something was missing at the crime scene and where it would be?"

"How _did_ you know something was missing?" Hermione asked.

"She was wearing pink, of course." Sherlock replied. Hermione blinked a couple of times, frowning.

"There's a much better explanation on my blog," John said sheepishly.

"What's a blog?" Hermione asked and then drained her tea.

"You know, where people write about things online. It's a bit like an e-journal," John said but Hermione still didn't seem to understand.

"Pass me your phone and I'll show it to you." Sherlock held out his hand. "I've not read his blog either; I'm intrigued to see whether his account of the case is better on there."

"I don't have a mobile phone," Hermione said, much to John's surprise. "My school was so isolated that there really wasn't much point. Technology doesn't work very well out there."

"How do you keep in touch with your friends and boyfriend?" Sherlock enquired.

"Letters, mostly," she answered. "It's not as instant as using a mobile phone, I know, but I find it much more personal. I'll probably get one now that I've moved to London, for emergencies and such."

"And work," John suggested.

"Yes, I suppose," Hermione agreed though she didn't sound very convincing to Sherlock's ears. "Hang on, how did you know I have a boyfriend?"

"Your perfume," Sherlock said simply.

"Here we go," John groaned.

"What about it?" Hermione asked with a frown.

"The scent isn't at all in keeping with the rest of your image. Your clothes are all at least two years old and well worn, your hair is reasonably well looked after but you're not vain enough to spend hours every morning straightening or curling it, you wear minimal make up but you insist on wearing that frankly disturbing aroma of perfume."

"Maybe I just like the brand of perfume," Hermione reasoned and John was surprised that she didn't sound the least bit annoyed by Sherlock's comments.

"It's the type of perfume that men think that women like – all sickly sweet and no subtlety. You haven't seen your father in eighteen months so it's unlikely to be from him. You mentioned an uncle but if it was from an extended family member you just wouldn't wear it and they'd probably never notice. No, this is a young man's mistake. A boyfriend. You wear it because you don't want to hurt his feelings, you want to prove that you still think of him while you're apart. You put it on every morning because you hope that one day you might accustom yourself to its scent and actually like it."

"That's… very impressive," Hermione said wryly. "And most perceptive." She sighed. "I _really_ don't like that perfume but don't ever tell Ron, his ears would go as red as his hair."

Sherlock's mind cast back to the night on Shaftesbury Avenue where one of Hermione's companions had been a male with red hair…

* * *

John rushed down the stairs tying his dressing gown as he went. "Sherlock!" he called. "What the hell is that noise?"

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the lounge reading a book. "Hermione is screaming," he said. "Can you tell her to stop it, it's interfering with my concentration."

"But why is she screaming?" John asked. He figured that the girl must be yelling at the top of her voice for them to be able to hear her two floors up.

"How should I know?" Sherlock snapped.

"Come on," John ordered as he continued his journey down the stairs but he doubted that Sherlock would follow. There was no sign of Mrs Hudson, which John put down to her use of sleeping pills. He banged on the door, "Hermione!" The screaming continued so he carried on his assault on the door. "HERMIONE!"

"I wish you would both stop this infernal racket," Sherlock said, suddenly appearing behind him. "Break down her door and be done with it."

John barged his shoulder against the door but it didn't budge. He didn't think it moved at all though his shoulder hurt more than enough. Hermione's screaming stopped abruptly.

"Hermione?" he called tentatively. Her stairway light came on and her footsteps were heard soon afterwards. "Are you alright?" John asked as soon as her face appeared.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," she said, her voice hoarse from all the screaming. "I'm afraid I can get a bit vocal when I'm having a nightmare."

John could see that she was trembling and the little of her skin that wasn't covered by her pyjamas was shiny with sweat. There were dark circles under her eyes that he hadn't noticed before and they were also rather red, as though she'd been crying.

"I have a recurring nightmare where I'm too stupid to solve a murder mystery play before the end of the second scene," Sherlock said, most unhelpfully in John's opinion. "Is yours like that?"

Hermione rubbed at her left forearm. "No. I've seen… never mind. Thank you both for your concern but I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," John said. "And I'm a doctor so I should know. Come upstairs and I'll make you some hot chocolate."

Before Hermione could make a reply, a ginger blur shot from behind her door and streaked up the stairs, making John jump.

"Oh, sorry, that's Crookshanks, my cat." Hermione groaned. "But I guess you already spotted ginger animal hairs on my clothes," she added, looking at Sherlock as she walked after her pet.

"Of course," he replied, following her. "Even John would've noticed those."

"Hey!" John called, though he was more annoyed that he hadn't spotted the cat hairs at all.

Crookshanks had made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs and the harder Hermione tried to pull him off, the further he sunk his claws into the upholstery. Hermione admitted defeat and sank into the chair with him. She accepted the mug of hot chocolate gratefully.

The three of them sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Sherlock began to read his book again and Hermione got the feeling that he'd instantly forgotten that she and John were there.

"So, you've been through some things," John said. Hermione glanced at him fearfully. "It's okay, I know what it's like."

"Y-you do?" She asked.

"I'm not just a normal doctor; I was an army doctor, Captain in the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I served in Afghanistan until I was shot here." He pointed to his shoulder. "But I was so scarred by what had happened that I developed a psychosomatic limp that was severe enough for me to be discharged. Every night I re-lived what I went through and I would wake looking much like you do."

Hermione stared at him. "Do you still dream of it?"

"Yes," John admitted. "It's become better since I've been here but most nights I will dream about something related to Afghanistan. Not all of it is bad but sometimes…" He took a sip of hot chocolate.

Crookshanks crawled onto Hermione's lap and she stroked him gently. "Thank you for telling me this, John."

He smiled and nodded. "I don't expect you to tell me what has happened to you but you _are_ talking to someone, aren't you?" John asked.

Hermione continued to stroke Crookshanks and didn't meet John's eyes. "No," she admitted softly.

John nodded in understanding. "I was very sceptical at first but it helps to talk about the past with someone. Just to share it with another person, it's like you've given some of the burden away. It could really help you."

Hermione sighed. "Nobody would be interested in what I've got to say. Not really."

John held up his hands, aware that he shouldn't push her to do something she wasn't ready for, though he was worried that she felt so isolated. "Okay, well if you're not comfortable with talking to anyone then maybe you should do a blog, like me." John could tell by the expression on her face that she wasn't keen on the idea so he reached over and grabbed his laptop from the table. He logged it on and brought it over to her. "Here, this is mine. I haven't got much on it yet though."

Hermione positioned the laptop on the arm of the chair so she wouldn't disturb Crookshanks and clicked on the different entries. "I see what you mean about this being like a diary. What are these comments at the bottom?"

"They're from people who've read what I've written. They can write a message to me," John explained.

"But who are these people?" Hermione asked.

"They're mostly people I know. Ella is my therapist, Bill is one of my friends and Harry is my sister." John felt Hermione shy away from the idea again. "You don't have to put your posts online. You could just type them into the computer and keep them to yourself."

"I'd probably be better off with an actual diary or a journal; I'm a really slow typist," Hermione admitted. "Besides, I don't actually have a computer."

"You are the strangest teenager I have ever met," John said shaking his head. "So you don't have Facebook, Twitter or anything like that?"

"I don't even have a clue what you're talking about," Hermione confessed.

"Where exactly was this school you went to? The Dark Ages?" John joked.

"In a forest in the middle of Scotland," Hermione corrected. "Now be quiet, I want to read some more of your blog. You said there's a more detailed explanation of that suicide case."

John pointed to where she needed to click and watched as her eyes tracked quickly across the screen as she read. Sherlock was wrong about his attraction to Hermione. Mostly, anyway. John couldn't deny that he thought she was an eye-catching girl and if he'd been a decade younger he would have been very taken with her. But he _was_ so much older than her and she already had a boyfriend. He was determined to prove to Sherlock (and himself) that it was entirely possible to find a girl attractive and not want to have a relationship with her.

"How do I write my own comment?" Hermione asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Like this…"

He watched in amusement as she typed her message using a single finger, like a child. She was right; it would take her too long to write a blog on a computer. He went to one of the bookshelves and pulled down a spare notebook of his.

"Done," she said with a hint of triumph as she handed the laptop back to him.

_A very interesting read, John. It sounds like an incredible adventure and rather dangerous too. I fear that Sherlock is not going to be impressed with only the small references to his genius-like deduction skills. Thank you for sharing this with me._

_**Hermione 02 March 01:27**_

"Hmmmm, perhaps it would be best if I never let Sherlock read these," John whispered.

"Never let me read what?" Sherlock asked loudly, making both of them start.

"My blog," John replied.

Sherlock went back to his book, apparently bored.

"Well, I'd better get back to bed," Hermione said but she didn't look pleased at the prospect.

"Here," John handed her the notebook and a pen from the table. "You can stay and write your first entry if you like. I'm not particularly tired any more. I might write a post of my own."

"Thank you. That's very thoughtful of you." She tucked her feet underneath herself, careful not to disturb Crookshanks, and opened the first page of the notebook.

Over the next forty-five minutes Sherlock silently observed John and Hermione fall asleep in their chairs. It had been a most thought provoking day but there was one thing he'd like to know straight away; why Hermione keep rubbing her left forearm. He'd seen her do it on a handful of occasions though she was probably unconsciously doing so. He waited another ten minutes to be sure they were both asleep before he rose and walked softly over to her. The ginger cat's ears twitched and he held his breath but the feline didn't wake. Sherlock would've dearly loved to have read what she'd written in the notebook but fortunately for her it was partly hidden under the cat's stomach and there was no way for him to retrieve it without someone waking up.

The sleeves of Hermione's pyjamas however, were rather loose on her petite frame and it was quite easy to move it upwards without disturbing her.

For a moment it seemed that there would be nothing there after all but as more of her forearm was revealed some letters came in to view. At first he thought they were tattooed onto her arm but then he realised that they were actually scars – not the pale, faded type you normally associate with scars. No, these were still red, almost raw. The lettering was childish and must have been done with a small but very sharp object. Finally the last letter was revealed near the crook of her elbow and Sherlock could read the whole word: mudblood.

* * *

A/N Thanks for reading! If you haven't actually read John's blog I would recommend it. You'll also understand the next chapter a bit better.

Until next time!

Lil Drop of Magic


	3. Interlude - John's Blog

A/N Thank you again for all your responses.

I've been a bit naughty with the setting for this story in terms on fitting it with the HP verse because I've been somewhat picking and choosing between the books and the films. The story is set in Sherlock series 1 so that means I've based the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 to be about 9 months before she moves into Baker Street. I try to be as true to the books as possible but if there's something I prefer in the movieverse (ie the 'mudblood' arm, or their arrival in central London) then I'm being wholly inconsistent and using that. Sorry if that confused you…

Also, I think I'm going to disappoint a few of you by telling you that this is not a Hermione/Sherlock fic. Romance really isn't the focus of this story.

* * *

Interlude – The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF Dr. John H. Watson

02 March

MY NEW NEW FLATMATE

_Well, actually she's not my new flatmate as she lives in flat C not B but we do share some facilities. Anyway, her name's Hermione and she's so young I feel like an OAP. According to Mrs H she's also very bright, scoring top level grades in all her exams. Yes, _exams,_ that's how young she is. Now you would think that I might feel insecure about living with two outstandingly intelligent individuals but there are things that I'm better at than them. Sherlock is completely clueless when it comes to niceties of interacting with other people and Hermione doesn't have much experience when it comes to technology. Who would have thought that there's a teenager in this country who doesn't have a mobile or a laptop and has never heard of Facebook!_

_Ella, you'll be pleased to know that this blog has allowed me to help someone else who's going through some of the same things that I am. Thank you for that._

**6 Comments**

_I'm glad that the blog is helping others too, John. _

_**E. Thompson 02 March 08:34**_

_You're living with a teenaged girl? That's hilarious. I hope it's not as annoying for you as when we were growing up. You hated those sleepovers, didn't you?_

_**Harry Watson 02 March 09:12**_

_I wasn't particularly happy when you and your friends painted my nails when I was asleep, no. I think Hermione's past the sleepover phase. Well, I hope so anyway –although it would be interesting to see Sherlock's reaction._

_**John Watson 02 March 09:43**_

_what sort of a teenager doesn't know about phones and facebook? _

_**theimprobableone 02 March 11:18**_

_An absolutely lovely one. She's very good at decorating too. My basement looks beautiful. _

_**Marie Turner 02 March 12:03**_

_It's Mrs Hudson by the way._

_**Marie Turner 02 March 12:04**_

* * *

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF Dr. John H. Watson

15 March

I HAVE BEEN REPLACED BY A CAT

_I came home from a walk this afternoon and found Sherlock deep in conversation with Crookshanks, Hermione's cat. I say he's Hermione's cat but in truth I don't think he's set foot (or paw?) in her flat since he escaped a couple of weeks ago. _

_Sherlock doesn't seem to notice if I leave the room or even the flat and he tends to carry on behaving as normal even if there's no one there to respond to him. Anyone who has met him will know that this is unsurprising. Somehow, I find it more ordinary for someone to talk to people who are not actually there than it is to talk to a cat and believe that it understands and responds to you. Sherlock has declared that Crookshanks is more observant and intelligent than I am. I feel like I should be more offended but Crookshanks did stop me eating a fish that had gone way past its expiry date (by eating it himself)._

**8 Comments**

_Freak_

_**sallydonovan 15 March 15:22**_

_I've interrupted Sherlock having a conversation with a corpse on more than one occasion…_

_**Mike Stamford 15 March 16:01**_

_Me too. It's amazing how he can do that!_

_**Molly Hooper 15 March 16:33**_

_When are we meeting up? I want to meet the people you live with and this cat that I can I use as a replacement for my brother! Xx_

_**Harry Watson 15 March 17:21**_

_I'll let you know when I'm free, Harry._

_**John Watson 15 March 17:47**_

_i'd replace you with a cat too._

_**theimprobableone 15 March 18:03**_

_Sorry about that, John. If it makes you feel any better I think I've been replaced as Crookshanks' owner – he barely comes near me anymore and follows Sherlock wherever he goes! :-)_

_**Hermione 15 March 19:11**_

_Hey, you learned how to do emoticons and I think it only took you about four minutes to type that message. You're making great progress!_

_**John Watson 15 March 19:23**_

* * *

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF Dr. John H. Watson

20 March

I SHOULD FEEL GUILTY

_Hermione is the only one of us that has a regular day job but she is also the only one who actually cooks anything edible in our kitchen, which means she always ends up making us dinner. Like I said, I should feel guilty about that but she's such a great cook that I physically can't form the words to tell her to stop and let me or Sherlock do it instead. We (or rather I) always do the washing up so it's not like we're (I'm) doing nothing to help. I would ask her to teach me but she won't let anyone else in the kitchen when she's cooking – she has the doors shut and everything. It wouldn't surprise me if she was sneaking in takeaways and putting them on the plate instead. Only joking, Hermione. Thank you for feeding me and please don't stop. _

**6 Comments**

_Sounds like my kind of woman._

_**Anonymous**__**20 March 20:18**_

_Is she single?_

_**Harry Watson 20 March 20:29**_

_She has a boyfriend. _

_**John Watson 20 March 20:37**_

_Damn._

_**Harry Watson 20 March 20:41**_

_John, if you suddenly found yourself responsible for your own cooking for a few months without any access to takeaways and very little culinary knowledge, the first thing you'd do when things got back to normal is do a little research! But I'm glad you like my cooking. PS I'm writing this from my phone! _

_**Hermione 20 March 21:59**_

_Wow. Look how far you've come in less than a month. You might actually pass for a regular teenager now._

_**John Watson 20 March 22:10**_

* * *

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF Dr. John H. Watson

22 March

LONDON BEWARE!

_Sherlock was his usual self at dinner tonight – annoying, snide, pompous, you get the idea. He was regaling Hermione and me with tales of his criminal successes before he met us. I'm not denying they were impressive; who knew that you could prove a murder with a cuddly toy duck? But then something terrible happened. Hermione (a woman I previously thought had a wise and sensible head on her young shoulders) asked Sherlock to teach her the ways of the Science of Deduction. Sherlock's reply was that he was 'a very busy man' but I didn't hear the word no. Things are bad enough with just one Sherlock in the flat. I dread to think what life would be like with a Sherlock-in-training too. I don't think there's enough room in the fridge for all the body parts._

**5 Comments**

_there will only ever be one sherlock holmes_

_**theimprobableone 22 March 19:02**_

_You're both so lucky to live with him. I wish Sherlock would give me a few tips. That would be amazing!_

_**Jacob Sowersby 22 March 19:36**_

_Great. Another freak._

_**sallydonovan 22 March 20:12**_

_Ha, ha, very funny…_

_**Hermione 22 March 20:17**_

_I look forward to reading how this progresses._

_**Anonymous 22 March 21:11**_

* * *

Thank you for reading! Reviews are most welcome!

Love,

Lil Drop of Magic


	4. Chapter Two - The Blind Banker

A/N Hi guys! Thanks for the continued support.

There's a pretty decent amount of borrowed dialogue from 1x02 of Sherlock in this chapter, which I obviously don't own! I should have pointed out last time that all the characters that commented on John's blog last time are taken from the official site so they're not mine either. I also don't go into great detail about the actual case in this episode so I hope you don't find the skipping about too confusing…

* * *

Chapter Two – The Blind Banker

Sherlock didn't even glance up from the book he was reading as John entered the room with an air of annoyance. "You took your time."

"Yeah. Hermione's not going to be pleased because I didn't get the shopping."

This _did_ make Sherlock look up. "What? Why not?"

"Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and PIN machine," John said angrily, knowing how absurd it sounded.

"You…You had a row with a machine?" Sherlock asked to clarify. Crookshanks gave John a look of great disdain, if that was even possible for a cat.

"Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse," John explained. "Have you got cash?"

"Take my card." Sherlock nodded towards the kitchen.

"You could always go yourself, you know," John pointed. "You and Crookshanks have been sitting there all morning, you've not even moved since I left. And what happened about that case you were offered – the Jaria diamond?"

"Not interested." Sherlock closed his book with a snap. "I sent them a message."

John noticed a scratch on the kitchen table and traced its path with a finger before exiting the flat in a huff.

He returned less than an hour later laden with bags of food shopping. On the one hand he was pleased to see that Sherlock had moved out of the arm chair to the desk, but nor did he rise to give John any assistance. "Don't worry about me, I can manage," he called, placing the bags on the kitchen table before turning back to Sherlock. "Is that my computer?"

"Of course."

"What?"

"Mine was in the bedroom," Sherlock offered as an explanation.

"What and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John realised there was no point in expecting an answer to that question. "It's password protected!"

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock muttered. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours, not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right. Thank you," John said, closing the laptop and taking it away from Sherlock. He shooed Crookshanks out of the armchair and sank down in it. He glanced at the table beside him and picked up a couple of letters but his attention was attracted to something underneath them. It was a paper file marked 'Shaftesbury Avenue'. "What's this?"

"What?" asked Sherlock, not bothering to turn around.

"This folder," John said, opening it up to see what it contained. "Shaftesbury Av…"

"John, give me that folder," Sherlock ordered, suddenly rising from his seat.

"Why the hell have you got a picture of Hermione in here?" John asked in confusion. "Is this from a CCTV camera?"

"Give it to me, John." Sherlock held out his hand. When John hesitated to relinquish the folder Sherlock made a move to snatch it from him.

"No!" John ducked to one side and scrambled to the kitchen, quickly flicking through the rest of the folder's contents: photos of two other young people, both male, a plan of Piccadilly Circus both above and below ground, a report on the possibility of teleportation and a couple of pages filled with Sherlock's handwriting. "What the hell is this about?" he demanded angrily.

"You're better off not knowing." Sherlock shrugged and John struggled against the familiar urge to punch him on the jaw.

"Tell me."

"If you insist," Sherlock said, walking back to take a seat in the lounge with John following cautiously. "I have a need to go to the bank but if you must put your needs ahead of mine then I suppose I can spare you a few minutes."

John took a deep, calming breath. "Sherlock…"

"Nineteen months ago I saw Hermione and her companions appear out of nowhere in the middle of a central London road," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John tilted his head. "When you say appear out of nowhere…?"

"One second there was empty space, the next there were three teenagers about to get run over by a bus," he explained. "I saw them materialise into existence with my own eyes."

John's face contorted in confusion. "I'm sorry, but that's – "

"Impossible, yes I know," Sherlock agreed. "Or at least I thought so."

"And you're definitely sure that's what happened?" John suggested, grasping for a reasonable solution. "You didn't blink and miss them running into the road?"

"There was no evidence of them being anywhere near Piccadilly Circus before that point. It happened just as I described, although the CCTV cameras didn't pick up their miraculous arrival either."

"Have you asked Hermione about what you saw?" John asked, still in disbelief that he was actually discussing the possibility of someone being able to, to _teleport,_ for want of a better word. Sherlock could be making the whole thing up for some reason but John couldn't understand why he would do that. The only other explanation was that Sherlock had gone crazy; something that wouldn't surprise John at all.

"I haven't found the right moment," Sherlock replied shortly and John let out a bark of laughter that developed into one of slight hysteria.

"No, I don't suppose you have," John muttered, throwing the folder back on to the table. "But, hang on, that's not why you left the file there, is it? So that she'd come across it? You know she's always tiding things away."

Sherlock's silence told John all he needed to know and more.

"You've been observing and investigating Hermione the entire time, haven't you?" John accused. "Every word she's said, every action she's taken has been logged in here." He pointed to his brain.

"Well how else am I going to work out what happened?" Sherlock snapped. "If I ask her and she up and leaves I'll probably never find her again; there's absolutely no record of her anywhere before she came to Baker Street. And it's not just Shaftesbury Avenue that makes no sense where she's concerned."

"Oh, God," John cried, throwing his hands up in despair. "What else is there then? Can she defy the laws of gravity as well? Did you see her float up the stairs instead of walk? Or maybe she can bend time to her will too?"

"There was very pronounced damp in her flat but she managed to completely eradicate it within sixty hours as well as re-plaster, wall paper and paint. Not to mention fit a carpet without taking any delivery of one and she managed to do this without any paint brushes, wallpaper paste or any other tools; her flat was completely empty when we visited it."

"Maybe her uncle took everything away," John suggested.

"Nobody else entered this building in that time," Sherlock replied. "Then there's the matter of her schooling. No school would let a student leave school without being more educated in technology. Not even an old-fashioned boarding school in the middle of Scotland."

"But her schooling got her a good job in that animal department. They were obviously impressed with her education."

"No decent employer these days would hire someone without a qualification in ICT. But that's neither here nor there when there isn't even a department in the Civil Service that deals with both animal rights and the regulation of dangerous breeds – they're completely different areas of animal care. There are only two government agencies that do feature animals; Animal Health, which is primarily responsible for ensuring that farmed animals in Great Britain are healthy, disease-free and well looked after. The other is the Veterinary Laboratories Agency which carries out animal disease surveillance and veterinary scientific research."

Sherlock barely stopped to take a breath before he continued. "I examined the letter Hermione gave to Mrs Hudson."

"And what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing really – apart from there being no evidence that the school she went to or her headmistress actually exist."

John rubbed his forehead, trying to take all of it in. "Just because her past is a bit…mysterious, and her decorating is very efficient, it doesn't mean she's capable of appearing out of thin air," he reasoned.

"Of course not," Sherlock agreed. "It just adds to the enigma of Hermione Granger."

"Huh," John grunted, sinking back into the armchair, feeling exhausted.

"I should point out that I don't believe her to be dangerous," Sherlock announced almost as an afterthought.

"Great." John really didn't know what to believe. What Sherlock had 'seen' wasn't possible. People didn't suddenly appear in busy London roads. But a few weeks ago he hadn't believed that serial suicides were possible either…

"I wish I'd never found this thing," John picked up the folder and tucked it between two boring looking books.

"I did try to tell you," Sherlock reminded him.

John went back to the letters he had originally picked up and tried to pretend the last few minutes had not happened. The contents of the bills he was holding didn't improve his mood. "Need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock responded, getting suddenly to his feet. "I'm going to the bank."

* * *

"You found a body?" Hermione gasped. "That… that's horrible!"

"Well, Sherlock found it," John clarified. "He left me outside knocking on the door." He found himself staring at Hermione for approximately the seventh time that night and quickly looked elsewhere. He'd decided to try and act as normal as possible around her but it was proving a bit difficult.

"But how did he die?" she asked, placing a plate of steaming risotto in front of each man. Sherlock barely ever ate any of Hermione's cooking but that was more because he never really seemed to eat much of anything. John had practically forced Sherlock to sit for their first meal together and it had become more of a habit since. Now John wondered whether Sherlock sat through dinner so that he could unobtrusively spy on Hermione.

"A bullet wound in the right side of the head," Sherlock said tapping his head in the corresponding spot. "With a gun on the floor."

"And he was in his bedroom with the door locked from the inside," John added.

"So it was suicide," Hermione said, taking a seat at the table.

"Wrong," Sherlock declared.

"Wrong?" Hermione repeated. "But if he'd locked himself in then how do you know he didn't do it?"

"You want to learn, you figure it out," Sherlock challenged, dissecting a mushroom.

"That's harsh, Sherlock, when she hasn't even seen anything in the flat," John argued.

Hermione's mind raced as she tried to solve the problem. She'd almost describe it as fun if weren't for the fact that a man had died. "So a killer made it _look_ like suicide. But they made a mistake that meant it couldn't have been suicide, that he couldn't have shot himself." She looked at Sherlock, picturing where he'd tapped his brain to show the bullet wound. How could it be impossible to shoot himself there? Did he have problems with his hands that meant he couldn't fire a gun? Unlikely for a high-flying banker.

A bullet wound in the _right _side of the head. Was there a reason Sherlock had been so specific? The right side. The right side. And then it came to her. "He was left handed?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Good."

"But if the door was locked from the inside then how did the killer get out of a high level apartment?" Hermione asked. "It's not as though he can bypass solid walls."

John glanced at Sherlock. If Hermione and her companions were able to appear out of nowhere then maybe there were others who could get themselves in and out of locked rooms.

"That is one of the things that we're trying to figure out," Sherlock answered.

* * *

"Did you have any luck with the rest of those books?" Hermione called as she entered the lounge after her day at work. When she'd left that morning John and Sherlock had so far failed to find the book that they needed to break the cipher.

Sherlock was in the process of tying his favoured blue scarf around his neck but there was no sign of John. "Good. You're just in time. We're going out."

"What? Where's John? How did his first day in his new job go?" Hermione asked, following Sherlock back down the stairs. "Where are we going?"

"We haven't found the book, I have no idea how John's first day was and he's meeting us at the circus," Sherlock replied opening the front door.

"The circus? Why are we going there?" Hermione queried.

"You're just full of questions tonight, aren't you?" Sherlock muttered, hailing a taxi. "Isn't it nice to do something different of an evening?"

"I suppose so," she agreed, taking a seat. "It's just a bit unexpected that's all."

A short taxi ride later they arrived at a building adorned with Chinese-style lanterns and Hermione shook her head. "This is about your case, isn't it?"

"Yes." Sherlock strode up the front steps and Hermione was forced to walk quickly to catch up with him.

"Well what do you need me for if John's here too?" she asked, glad to be in the warmth of the somewhat ramshackle building.

"You can talk to John's date for him so he won't be distracted," Sherlock explained, climbing the steps to the box office.

"Distracted? Wait… John's here on a date?!" Hermione cried as the man behind the counter said:

"Actually I have four in that name."

"No, I don't think so," she heard John say in confusion, "I only booked two."

Hermione tried to make a grab for Sherlock to stop him interfering but he was just out of reach. "Then I phoned back and got one each for myself and Hermione as well."

Hermione winced as she felt John and his date glance over in her direction.

She walked forwards reluctantly as Sherlock introduced himself to John's date. "I'm sorry!" she mouthed silently at John before turning to the woman. "Um, hi, I'm Hermione," she said, shaking her hand.

"Sarah," the other woman replied.

"Great," John said with false enthusiasm.

"I think it's this way," Sherlock announced, indicating another set of stairs.

"Actually, I'm just going to pop to the toilet," Sarah said. "Excuse me."

"John, I'm so sorry. I never would have come here if I'd known you were on a date!" Hermione insisted as the three of them moved to the stairs to be out of the way of other customers.

"Don't worry, Hermione, I know exactly whose fault this is," John said, turning to Sherlock angrily. "You couldn't let me have just one night off?"

"We should go, Sherlock. This isn't fair to John or Sarah," Hermione said, beckoning him down the stairs.

"Yellow Dragon Circus is in London for one day. It fits," Sherlock insisted, showing no remorse for hijacking John's date. "The Tong sent an assassin to England…"

"Dressed as a tightrope walker!" John suggested mockingly. "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity?" Sherlock argued. "Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now all I need to do is have a quick look round the place."

"Fine. You do that, I'm going to take Sarah for a pint," John said, turning to leave.

"I need your help," Sherlock insisted.

"Hermione can help you," John pointed out though Hermione wasn't sure she was too keen on that idea. "I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening."

"Like what?" Sherlock scoffed dismissively.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. She couldn't recall Ron even being this obtuse.

"You are kidding?" John asked.

"What's so important?" Sherlock wondered.

"Sherlock, I'm in the middle of a date," John explained. "You're going to chase some killer while I'm trying to…"

"What?" Sherlock demanded obliviously.

"While I'm trying to get off with Sarah," John said as his date appeared behind him. "Hey…ready?"

John and Sarah led the way upstairs leaving Hermione and Sherlock to follow. "You're unbelievable," she muttered. "Have you never been on a date?"

"I don't remember," Sherlock replied.

"How can you not remember?" she asked incredulously.

"Any dates I might have had were obviously so insignificant that I've deleted them from my memory." Sherlock explained as they emerged into a large, dimly lit hall. A big circle marked by thick candles lay in the centre of the room, with a sparse crowd around the outside.

"You deleted them?" Hermione questioned.

"Yes. Like a hard drive," he stated. "You do know what a hard drive is now, don't you?"

"Yes. Oh, no, Sherlock," Hermione protested as he carried on following John and Sarah. "Let's stand somewhere else."

"Surely Sarah will think we're being rude if we purposefully avoid her," Sherlock argued, planting himself just behind John, forcing Hermione to stand nearby.

"You said circus," John muttered. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is…art."

"This is not their day job," Sherlock whispered.

"Sorry, I forgot, they're not a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers," John replied sarcastically.

"I don't mean to tell you what you should do," Hermione said quietly, "but maybe you'd better pay more attention to your date."

Someone started playing a small drum and Hermione looked around expectantly. A woman dressed in elaborate traditional Chinese opera singer clothes and make-up entered the circle of candles, unveiling a beautiful but deadly crossbow. The Opera Singer showed that it could be set off with just the weight of a feather – the speed of the bolt making everyone jump and applaud.

A masked man appeared as part of the act and he was strapped to a post a short distance away from the crossbow.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock explained as the man was chained in place. "The crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires." The Opera Singer loaded another bolt and then plunged a knife into a bag of sand. "She splits the sandbag, the sand pours out. Gradually, the weight lowers into the bowl."

Hermione watched transfixed as the weight got lower and lower to the trigger of the crossbow and the man still struggled to free himself. With time running out she reached into the inside of her jacket and grasped her wand, ready to act should she need to. The crossbow fired and the man threw himself to the ground just in time. Hermione let out a sigh of relief and relinquished her hold on her wand as she applauded with the rest.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Sherlock had gone. She raised her eyebrows at John but he shook his head and moved perceptibly closer to Sarah. Hermione made her mind up in a split second and inched backwards away from the crowd to find where Sherlock had disappeared to.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," The Opera Singer announced as Hermione tiptoed through the darkness. "From the distant moonlit shores of the Yangtze River, we present, for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese bird-spider!"

Hermione saw an acrobat unravel himself from long strips of red material that hung from the ceiling and she wondered whether this was the killer that Sherlock and John sought. Hermione watched as the Opera Singer exited from the hall to go backstage and Hermione followed her, keeping to the shadows. She grasped her wand again and was about to move forward to go through the door herself when the Opera Singer returned. Hermione kept still, the woman passing her by without noticing and then opened the door to find Sherlock.

He was standing with a can of spray paint and looked at her with a mightily pleased expression on his face. "I knew it w– " he stopped suddenly and looked behind him as something that Hermione had took to be a prop, suddenly attacked Sherlock.

Hermione darted forward, unsure what to do. The attacker swiped at Sherlock with a silver blade and Hermione grabbed a chair meaning to crash it over his head but Sherlock was in her way. "Duck!" she yelled at him and Sherlock obliged. She heaved the chair at the attacker but he grabbed it with his free hand and pulled hard, launching her forwards and making both herself and Sherlock tumble to the floor.

She rolled over to see where the attacker was and watched as Sherlock knocked the man's feet from under him. She and Sherlock got to their feet but the attacker swung his legs upwards and launched himself to his feet. Before either of them could react, the attacker twisted himself round and landed a roundhouse kick in Sherlock's stomach, propelling him through the curtains back into the main hall.

With Sherlock gone, Hermione wasted no time in whipping out her wand, statute of secrecy be damned. She summoned the blade out of the attacker's hand and then blasted him through the curtain too. She watched as he flew halfway across the room to land near John and Sarah's feet and she winced, aware that she'd over done it a bit.

She drew back from the curtain so that no one would notice her and stowed her wand away. It had been many months since she'd found herself in a dangerous position and her overreaction showed how rusty she was.

It was easy to slip back into the main hall with all the guests running for the exits. Hermione trotted over to where the attacker lay just as Sherlock whipped off his shoe to reveal a black flower tattoo on the heel of his foot. John, Sherlock and Sarah looked at her intently for a couple of seconds.

"We should get out of here," Sherlock suggested and none of them needed telling twice.

* * *

"Hermione!" Sherlock yelled, pounding on her door. "Hermione!"

Hermione opened the door looking alarmed. "What is it?"

"They've taken John. We must hurry." Despite the misgivings Sherlock had about her, Hermione, to her credit, did not even hesitate to follow him.

"What about Sarah?" Hermione asked as they hurried into the night.

"Oh, yes, they've taken her too," Sherlock said, hailing a taxi.

"You must tell me everything," she demanded in annoyance. "Don't leave out little details like there being more than one person we need to rescue. This tong, or whatever they're called, they've already killed three people."

"That fact hasn't been lost on me," Sherlock assured her before giving an address to the taxi driver. He then told her about Soo Lin Yao starting to translate the encrypted message and his discovery that the 'London A-Z' book was the one they needed to crack the cipher.

"Did you call the police?" she asked.

"You heard Dimmock," he scoffed, recalling how unimpressed the inspector had been at the lack of results when he'd raided what remained of the Yellow Dragon Circus. "He's not about to act on my orders again so soon."

"So it's just you and me against an unknown number of a deadly Chinese criminal organisation in a dark tramway?" Hermione clarified.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. But next time you want to go out in the evening can we just go to a restaurant or the cinema?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, glad that she wasn't a terrified, blubbering wreck. "Agreed."

The taxi came to a stop and Sherlock threw some money at the cabbie before they both exited. "This way," he instructed and Hermione followed closely. After a couple of minutes of moving hurriedly through the dark they came to an entrance to the tramway and Sherlock paused. "Look, whatever you can do to save John's life – "

" – And Sarah's," Hermione reminded him

"Yes, and Sarah's. Just… do it." It was as much of a reference to Hermione's unusual ability as he was prepared to acknowledge for now and the confused look on her face showed she didn't really understand what he meant anyway.

The tramway was very dark but a light up ahead told them where they needed to go.

"You've seen the act before," Sherlock recognised the voice of the Opera Singer from the circus earlier that evening as it echoed around the tramway. "How dull for you. You know how it ends."

"Keep to the sides," Sherlock whispered to Hermione as loud as he dared. "The darkness is our friend." He could just make out her small frame nodding before it disappeared further up the tramway.

"I'm not Holmes!" John bellowed in obvious distress.

"I don't believe you!" The Opera Singer replied.

"You should, you know," Sherlock announced, stepping out of the shadow of a big storage container. The Opera Singer turned and one of her henchmen ran towards him. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him." He was about to step back into the shadows again when an intense white light erupted all around him. He stumbled to the ground amid yells and screams from the other occupants of the tramway. He blinked and then blinked again. He couldn't see a thing.

"I can't see!" he heard John gasp. "Sherlock, what's happened?"

Sherlock felt a disturbance in the air near him, swiftly followed by a groan and a thud. The Chinese henchman had been knocked out.

"I tripped over something," Hermione's voice explained from close by. "It set off some sort of light, sorry." Sherlock knew she was lying but there was still The Opera Singer and Soo Lin's brother to take care of before he had time to puzzle over what she'd done.

"Someone save Sarah!" John cried. "The crossbow from the circus, she's in its path!"

Sherlock wished John would stop talking. Not being able to see wouldn't stop an assassin like The Spider from breaking his neck.

With his vision out of action, Sherlock focused his hearing. Someone, most likely Hermione, ran towards John and Sarah. A second later the loudness of a second thud told him that The Spider was down too.

A couple more footsteps and then there was Hermione's voice. "Sarah, it's Hermione, I'm going to untie you."

"Thank God," John gasped. "Hurry, there can't be much time left."

"Don't worry, Sarah. It's all going to be fine," Hermione soothed.

Sherlock precariously got to his feet, annoyed that the echoes of their talking were preventing him from hearing what The Opera Singer was doing.

"There, done," Hermione said. "Quick, this way." A dragging noise was followed by the unmistakeable release of the crossbow bolt.

"Is she alright?" John cried. "Are you both okay?"

"We're fine. Well, sort of," Hermione replied as the sound of Sarah's sobs filled the tramway.

A noise to Sherlock's left made him turn his head quickly. The Opera Singer. He took a step towards the sound, his hands raised defensively and promptly tripped over the unconscious henchman on the ground. This temporary blindness was really starting to irritate him.

"The Opera Singer," he gasped, winded by his fall.

Hermione's footsteps came towards him again. "I can't see he– " She was suddenly cut off and a light thud told him that it was Hermione who fell to the ground this time.

The Opera Singer's footsteps moved past him and he lurched himself towards them but he was only met with thin air. She was going to get away.

"What's happened?" John asked. "Hermione? Sherlock?"

"The Opera Singer has escaped," Sherlock replied, pulling himself to his feet. "She attacked Hermione. I'm trying to get to her."

"Damn these eyes!" John cursed. "Where the hell did that light come from?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said slowly. A dim light was just visible in the distance. He blinked a few times and more of his vision started to come back. Hermione's crumpled form lay a couple of yards away. Sherlock knelt down and checked her pulse; it was active, beating fast, though her breath rasped in her throat.

Sherlock glanced up; Sarah was untying John, neither were looking in his direction. He brought out a portable light from his pocket and trained it over her body. A bruise was already starting to form on her throat, explaining the rasping noise but there were no other visible injuries. He checked the pockets of her coat, finding them empty. Her phone was in the pocket of her trousers but that was all. He pulled up her right sleeve and was surprised to discover that there wasn't the faintest sign of the word that had been scratched into her forearm.

Hermione started to stir and he pulled her sleeve back down. Her chest heaved and she sat up, coughing and spluttering. "Ow," she croaked, holding her fingers to her throat. "What happened?"

"The Opera Singer. She got away," Sherlock told her, pulling her up.

"Oh." Hermione looked around her, seeming to spot something on the ground. She picked it up hastily and stored it in her pocket before Sherlock could get a look at what it was. She made her way unsteadily towards Sarah and John so Sherlock held her arm lightly to make sure she didn't fall over.

"Is everyone alright?" John asked, his arm wrapped protectively around Sarah.

"Fine," Sherlock replied and Hermione started coughing again. When she stopped she nodded with a wince.

"W-what was that light?" Sarah asked Hermione.

The teenager opened her mouth to explain but she winced again, and waved her hand over her throat to show that she couldn't talk. Sherlock caught John's eye and raised an eyebrow at him but John shook his head, making Sherlock frown. He couldn't understand why John was so reluctant to believe that there was something seriously strange about Hermione.

If only he had the evidence to prove it.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

Love,

Lil Drop of Magic


	5. Interlude - Hermione's Journal

A/N Hi guys! Thank you again for all the ways you've acknowledged this story.

It's important to note that most of this chapter refers to events BEFORE the chapter you've just read. Only the last entry takes place after 'The Blind Banker'. Hope that's not too confusing.

* * *

Interlude – The Journal of Hermione Granger

The Diary of Hermione Granger – 1st March

_I've never had a diary before, mostly because I prefer to spend my time reading or doing homework rather than writing about my thoughts and experiences. And, of course, there was Riddle's diary in second year. I'm not saying that I would've tried to possess someone else with my diary should I have had one, but whenever someone mentions diary to me that's what I instantly think of. Now my mind follows that by leaping first to horcruxes and then all the horrible things that happened last year_.

_I think I'll call this a journal instead._

The Journal of Hermione Granger – 2nd March _(I forgot that it was past midnight.)_

_Anyway, the reason that I'm writing in this journal is because it's been recommended to me by John (or Dr John Watson if you're being more formal). I've just moved into the same building as him; 221 Baker Street. The building belongs to Mrs Hudson (she's lovely). John shares 221B with another man called Sherlock Holmes who is the world's first consulting detective. As you can imagine for someone whose profession is reliant on him being smarter than the entire police force, Sherlock is rather full of himself but I think he means well. He was able to work out I have a boyfriend just by the perfume I wear! _

_Speaking of Ron, it was his birthday today (well, yesterday). I thought he might want to spend the evening together but he said he was celebrating with the other trainee aurors. They're all male and he said he didn't want me to feel left out. Harry would be there too but I can understand what Ron means (__though a small part of me thinks that he doesn't want me to cramp his 'style').__ I sent him a birthday card and two tickets to the next Canons game though I doubt he'll want to take me._

_The... __A...__ I had that nightmare again. The one about Malfoy Manor. I thought that living somewhere on my own without any connection to magic would help me forget but John and Sherlock are two floors above me and they could hear me screaming… I'm going to have to buy some dreamless sleep potion or brew some myself otherwise I'm going to wake them practically every night. John suggested that I talk to someone about the things I've been through because he had a pretty bad experience in Afghanistan (he was an army doctor until he got shot). He sees a therapist. I'm glad that it works for him but there isn't a muggle therapist in the world who wouldn't have me committed as soon as I started to talk about magic, spells and evil wizards who wanted to take over the world. I don't think there's an equivalent to a therapist in the wizarding world though I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who could use one after what we've all been through. Or maybe I'm just weaker than them – I've never heard Ron or Harry mention having nightmares about past events. But then again, they've never had Bellarix Lestrange use their arm as a carving board. Ugh, and now I feel horrible because Harry's been subjected to horrors far worse than that._

_I'd better go back to bed soon. I'm beginning to feel quite tired and I don't want to fall asleep in John and Sherlock's flat, that would be quite ru_

* * *

The Journal of Hermione Granger – 10th March

_Well, I've managed to get through my first week in the world of employment! It's been good to get my teeth into something – I feel like I've been drifting ever since I finished my NEWTs. There's quite a lot of paper work but it's the same in every department of the ministry. At least in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures I get to go out and do some field work too. Yesterday I was allowed to shadow two member of the department when they had to capture a cockatrice that had broken out of its enclosure. _

_Ron took me out for lunch today. It was so lovely to spend some time with him; he just lifts my spirit. He told me the funniest story about him mispronouncing one of his spells when he and Harry were practicing duelling, which ended up in Harry covered in strawberry ice cream! I laughed so hard I got a stitch! _

_He asked me what it was like in my new flat. I just said everything was very ordinary, almost boring. I don't know why I said that. Even though I've only lived in Baker Street for a week and a half, I can honestly say it's never boring. Sherlock's latest experiment nearly made the fridge explode! Though he claimed that was the intended outcome... _

_John said he'd help me buy a mobile phone tomorrow and I'm going to cook a roast dinner on Sunday to thank him. A part of me almost wishes Sherlock knew that I cook all his dinners using magic. I think he'd probably self-combust._

* * *

The Journal of Hermione Granger – 18th March

_Last year, the significance of this date somewhat passed me by. When you're constantly on the run the days tend to run in to each other. But if I had remembered then I would have been happy knowing that Mum would be able to enjoy her birthday safely away from Voldemort's threat. _

_This year I miss her and Dad terribly. I thought about sending her a card or arranging for a bouquet of flowers to be delivered but I don't even know their address. It was safer that way. To make matters worse, I babysat for Andromeda today. (It'll be Teddy's first birthday in a couple of weeks and she wanted to shop for him in peace.) Here was this beautiful baby boy who would never know his parents, would never get to celebrate his mother's birthday with her or watch her blow out the candles on her birthday cake. And then there was me; the child who made their parents forget that their daughter had ever existed. I did it with good reason and I'd do it again in a heartbeat to keep them safe, but I can't help but feel monstrously guilty…_

_It won't be long until I'll be able to bring them home. There aren't many Death Eaters still unaccounted for and there's been no attack on muggles or muggleborns for five weeks. I just hope they don't hate me when they realise what I've done._

* * *

The Journal of Hermione Granger – 21st March

_I got another anonymous message on my phone today. When I got the first one a few days ago I thought someone had sent it to me by mistake. I texted them back to tell them they must have the wrong number but a couple of days later I got another one. I decided to ignore it and since then I've gotten one every day. They seem innocent enough – they only ask me how my day was, what book I'm reading, what I'm having for dinner, things like that. If it carries on for much longer I'll ask John what he thinks I should do._

* * *

The Journal of Hermione Granger – 27th March

_I nearly had my head chopped off by a Chinese Opera Singer's hand tonight. I'm not joking. All in a night's work when you assist Sherlock Holmes on one of his cases. I'm going to have to find ways of being more discreet in using my magic if I want to help more often though. I accidentally propelled someone about twenty feet across a hall in front of a load of muggles. Sherlock and John know it was me but they didn't see me use magic. I think I managed to get away with that one but it gets worse. John and his date, Sarah, were kidnapped by this Chinese gang (because they thought John was Sherlock) and Sherlock and I went to rescue them. Without magic I'm really quite useless and I wasn't going to stand idly by while two people's lives were in danger. I used a blinding jinx so that no one would see what I was doing. I stunned the two henchmen non-verbally and untied Sarah so she wouldn't be in the path of a giant and extremely lethal crossbow. Sherlock warned me that the Opera Singer was near him and I tried to immobilise her too but she was in the shadows, hence the hand-chop into the throat. She got away. _

_My explanation for the blinding light was that I tripped over something that set it off and that I closed my eyes as I fell, meaning that my vision wasn't as affected as the others'. As you can imagine, this was met with some quite sceptical expressions. Sherlock didn't even ask me to show him where I tripped so I know that he doesn't believe me in the slightest but what else can he think? The injury to my throat is actually a bit of a godsend because it gives me an excuse not to talk too much. I think I'm going to have to keep a pretty low profile around the boys over the next few days. _

_Oh, and I asked John about the anonymous text messages this morning. He looked a little concerned and mentioned stalking but I think that's a bit of an overreaction. He suggested that I get a new number so I'll go to the shop in a couple of days. The message I got tonight said:_

I hope you're having a fun evening_. _

* * *

A/N Thanks for reading! Next time (probably this weekend) we will start 'The Great Game'.

Please let me know what you think!

Love,

Lil Drop of Magic


	6. Chapter Three i - The Great Game

A/N Hello! Thanks for your continued support!

Again, there's a lot of borrowed dialogue from 'Sherlock'. According to the dates on John's blog, 'The Great Game' takes place pretty much immediately after 'The Blind Banker'.

I had to break the chapter up into three parts because it was just too long!

* * *

Chapter 3 (Part One) – The Great Game

_Good morning. I trust you slept well._

Hermione scowled at the new message on her phone. Yesterday she'd gone to a phone shop and changed her number to avoid these anonymous messages but it obviously hadn't worked.

The ironic thing was that she hadn't slept well. She hadn't slept much at all really thanks to a large explosion in the houses opposite 221B Baker Street, which the authorities had put down to a gas leak.

She'd been in her flat when the explosion happened, avoiding Sherlock's boredom induced bad mood. Luckily both Hermione and her flat had come out of the incident unscathed. The same couldn't be said for upstairs. The force of the blast had destroyed the windows in the lounge, scattering glass everywhere. Sherlock had been thrown to the floor but he said he was absolutely fine. Unfortunately, Crookshanks had been cut by some of the shards of glass and one piece actually got lodged in his back.

Hermione told Sherlock that she was taking Crookshanks to an emergency vet though she doubted he actually listened to her. In truth she took her cat to a practise for magical animals. They removed the glass and cleaned Crookshanks' cuts straightaway. Hermione had to request that they use stitches to close the wound in his back.

"Muggles?" the wizard treating him had asked.

"Yes," Hermione replied, "and one of them is a particularly observant one."

The wizard had done as she'd requested and had even let her keep Crookshanks there overnight to make the whole thing seem more plausible.

She'd spent the remainder of the evening giving a statement to a couple of police officers and helping to get 221B tidied up. The little sleep she'd managed to get had been fitful. She was able to get a message to her boss that she would be in late today because she needed to pick up Crookshanks, but he'd told her to take the day off.

Crookshanks meowed pitifully in his carry case and Hermione could understand why; in order to stop him interfering with his stitches she'd had to buy a pet cone for him. He didn't like it.

A constable allowed her past the barrier and she let herself into the flat with a last sweeping look at the devastation behind her.

Now that he was back in familiar territory Crookshanks cried insistently to be let out.

"Alright, alright," Hermione muttered, undoing the fastenings with a tap of her wand. The ginger cat raced towards the stairs, tripping slightly as he got used to his new cone.

Hermione followed him, deciding she needed a cup of tea. "Crookshanks is going to be fine," she called, knowing Sherlock was likely to be awake even at this relatively early hour. "He just needs to keep that cone on until we can take the stitches out." She walked into the lounge and stopped abruptly. Sherlock wasn't alone.

Their guest was someone Sherlock didn't seem particularly fond of judging by his petulant look and body language, though the newcomer seemed perfectly at ease with the animosity being directed at him. He was impeccably dressed in a light grey three-piece suit, making Hermione feel rather scruffy in her simple jeans and cream, woollen jumper.

"Er, hi," Hermione said awkwardly. She was on the point of excusing herself to leave when the man rose.

"Miss Granger, I believe," he said, holding out his hand with a knowing smile.

"Um, yes," she replied, walking forward and shaking his hand warily. "Hermione."

"Charmed," he replied. There was something about him that Hermione found slightly unsettling. He was obviously a very wealthy and successful man judging by his clothes and the way he held himself – his watch alone must be worth a few thousand pounds. His accent and etiquette suggested an upper-class background and the way he accepted Sherlock's attitude with gentle amusement showed that the guest was very familiar with his bad tempered ways. In fact Sherlock seemed to have regressed before her eyes, looking very much like a little boy who was about to have a large sulk.

"Sherlock's brother?" she guessed, hoping she was right. The man laughed and Sherlock glared at them both.

"Quite the fast learner, aren't you?" He inclined his head. "Mycroft Holmes."

"It's nice to mee– " Hermione started to say but Sherlock cut across her.

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

Mycroft turned back to retake his seat but found Crookshanks sitting there, staring up at the newcomer balefully. Hermione darted forward to get him out of the way but Sherlock smiled at his brother, amused that he had been displaced by a cat. After a couple of failed attempts, Hermione eventually persuaded Crookshanks to move by promising him some salmon for his dinner. The cat hopped down and then leapt onto Sherlock instead. Sherlock didn't look particularly pleased about this until Crookshanks positioned himself to sit upright, facing Mycroft. Hermione watched as Sherlock hunched down in his seat slightly so that he couldn't see his brother past Crookshanks' cone.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft clicked his tongue irritably.

"What? This is how I sit when there's a cat on my lap," Sherlock muttered, though his voice was slightly distorted by the cone. "Just talk, Mycroft, annoyingly I can still hear you."

"I'm going to make a cup of tea," Hermione announced to give her an excuse to leave the room. "Would anyone else like one?"

"Yes," replied the strange Crookshanks-Sherlock hybrid.

"No, thank you, Miss Granger," Mycroft said with a wince.

The kettle had just boiled when there was the sound of the front door slamming and running footsteps on the stairs. "Sherlock!" John's voice called and Hermione was relieved to have someone else here whose surname wasn't Holmes.

She made some tea for John too and put some biscuits on a plate. She re-entered the lounge just in time to hear Mycroft tell John about a dead civil servant found on the train tracks of Battersea.

Sherlock accepted his tea without a word, staring intently at the stitches on Crookshanks' back. Hermione quickly moved away from him and handed John a mug. He muttered a quick 'thanks' and helped himself to a handful of biscuits while he looked over a folder that Mycroft had given him.

Mycroft waved the biscuits away when they were offered to him and he turned back to his brother with a stern look. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Sherlock looked calmly at his brother. "I'd like to see you try." And he took a long sip of tea.

"Think it over," Mycroft suggested in a slightly more threatening manner before turning his back on his brother and walking over to John. "Goodbye, John," he said, shaking his hand. "See you very soon." John didn't look like he knew he to respond to this but luckily for him Mycroft turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger, I wonder if you could walk me down."

Hermione had only just managed to sit down and have a sip of tea, which she swallowed hastily. "Oh, okay." It was a strange request but it couldn't do any harm.

"Are you going to offer her money in return for spying on Sherlock for you?" John asked accusingly.

"No, that's not necessary where Miss Granger is concerned," Mycroft replied with that knowing smile again. Hermione paused, confused as to what they were talking about.

"Why not?" John asked, also looking puzzled.

"She has an excellent track record where loyalty and self-sacrifice are concerned," Mycroft said mysteriously. Hermione tried to maintain an innocently mystified expression but her stomach twisted. He didn't know, did he?

"I was a soldier," John pointed out, looking almost offended that his career hadn't proven him to be considered trustworthy from the start.

"Quite," Mycroft said with tight smile. He indicated to the hallway, "Miss Granger."

Hermione walked stiffly from the lounge, closely followed by Mycroft.

"That was weird," she heard John mutter as they descended the stairs.

"I won't insult your intelligence by pretending that I'm not an important and therefore quite busy man, so I'm sure you'll forgive me if I get straight to the point," Mycroft said once they reached the bottom of the stairs. Hermione was finding it quite difficult to swallow properly but she turned back to Mycroft and nodded. He glanced up at the landing above them and steered her closer towards the front door. "It would be most unwise to reveal your…" he waved his hand slightly, casting around for the right word while Hermione held her breath, "_gift_ to my brother."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific," she replied, all too aware of the weight of her wand against her chest.

Mycroft cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable and cast another look towards the stairs to check no one was listening. "Your _magic_," he clarified in a whisper.

Hermione felt a shiver run up her spine and she too looked at the stairs but they were quite empty. "How did you know?" she asked softly. If this man knew who she was then how many other muggles knew?

"My position in…my profession…means that I'm sentient of _all_ of this country's various occupants," Mycroft replied choosing his words carefully. "As I'm sure you're aware, links between the government and your ministry were seldom used but given recent events things are a tiny bit more open now."

"Good," Hermione replied, not sure whether it was the right thing to say.

"It is, isn't it?" Mycroft smiled patronizingly. "But back to my brother. I fear the discovery of _gifted_ people such as yourself would bring nothing but chaos to poor Sherlock's life. In his mind, you see, there is a logical, scientific reason behind everything. If you introduce him to the concept of _magic_," he mouthed, "the world will never be the same place to him again. All those puzzles he'll be presented with, well, he'll just wonder if some other force is responsible – one that he'll never truly be able to understand. And he _will_ try to understand. The lure of the knowledge will be too great for him to keep away from. Then he'll be stuck between two worlds, neither of which he'll feel like he belongs to."

"It's never been my intention to tell him or John anything," Hermione declared but that knowing smile was on Mycroft's face.

"Oh, I'm sure," he said softy. "But if you intend to continue to participate in his little excursions there will undoubtedly come a time when the danger he puts you in will mean you will have a choice to make; keep your true self hidden and let your friends suffer or save them and reveal your abilities." He shook his head sadly. "A decision I don't envy of you and while I'm sure my brother wouldn't mind forgetting I exist, I doubt the climate of Australia would suit him terribly well. Good day, Miss Granger." Hermione stood frozen to the spot as Mycroft let himself out.

How did he know about her parents? Barely any of her friends knew what she'd done, but now this random muggle claimed to. She took a deep breath and hoped that Mycroft Holmes wasn't as dangerous as he appeared to be. He didn't think she'd exile Sherlock to another country just because he found out about magic, did he? Making her parents forget her and sending them to the other side of the world was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do but she'd done it _for their own good_.

But what if Mycroft was right? What if Sherlock couldn't handle knowing about magic? What if he needed to be made to forget for _his_ own good? No, she couldn't do that to him – he had one of the most brilliant minds she'd ever come across.

Hurried footsteps on the stairway made her look up. Sherlock was racing down the stairs, hurriedly followed by John. "John's abysmal blogging skills have given you a chance to impress me," Sherlock told her imperiously.

In light of her conversation with Mycroft, Hermione grimaced and shook her head. "I – I can't, I'm busy," she lied.

"Your presence here at this time of day suggests you've got the day off work." Sherlock stated as he walked out of the door.

Hermione shook her head slightly, realising that she should've known how easily he'd see through that.

"Come on," John said, given her a friendly push towards the door. "You can bear the brunt of Sherlock's scorn this time."

There was something addictive about this lifestyle, Hermione decided as she watched the London streets flash past from the inside of the taxi. But this would be it; a last hurrah before she'd ever really started. Tonight she'd start looking for a new flat before she changed her mind.

"What did Mycroft want?" John asked, tearing her out of her thoughts.

"Oh, um, he just warned me against getting involved in your investigations," Hermione explained as truthfully as she could.

"And you decided to come anyway," Sherlock pointed out, looking amused.

Hermione shrugged and tried to ignore the unease she'd felt at Mycroft's parting words. "How could I resist?"

* * *

The New Scotland Yard building wasn't particularly impressive and looked much like any other workplace with people bustling all over the place and telephones ringing constantly. The sergeant on duty waved them through when they arrived. Sherlock seemed to know where he was heading and Hermione followed dutifully, taking as much in as she could.

A middle-aged man with prematurely silver hair met them halfway up a staircase.

"What do you have for me, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, wasting no time.

The Inspector nodded at John and then his eyes tracked down to Hermione who tried to look like she regularly frequented police stations.

"Who's this?" he asked shortly. "She doesn't even look old enough to have left school yet."

"She's on work experience," Sherlock explained. "Hermione, go and get me a coffee."

"A coffee?" she repeated in surprise.

"Yes, that's what people do on work experience, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, not really expecting an answer. "Black, two sugars." He continued his journey up the stairs.

"But how will I find you?" Hermione called to his retreating figure. Sherlock ignored her. John gave her a sympathetic look. "Do either of you want anything?" she asked, resigned to her fate.

They shook their heads and quickly followed Sherlock. "It's the fourth floor, office at the back," Lestrade yelled down, taking pity on her.

It took her two minutes to find the coffee machine after someone gave her directions and then three more minutes to wait for the ancient machine to spit out something resembling hot muddy water. She hurried to fourth floor, careful not to spill any of Sherlock's precious coffee, and only had to back track once in order to find the right office.

She got there just as a dark skinned woman with big, curly black hair came out chuckling, "freak," under her breath. Confused, Hermione entered seeing Sherlock examining a pink phone.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new," he muttered.

"The same phone as what?" Hermione whispered to John, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock's thought processes.

"The pink case," he replied.

"Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone," Sherlock continued, "which means your blog has a far wider readership." He threw a disapproving look at John who didn't look fazed.

"Here's your coffee," Hermione said, putting it in front of him but he waved her away and turned on the phone.

An automated voice declared, "You have one new message."

Everyone was silent, waiting to hear the message that someone had left. Four short electronic beeps sounded, followed by a long beep. Hermione didn't understand what those noises meant at all.

"Is that it?" John asked.

"No. That's not it," Sherlock replied. He held the phone up for them all to see and gave Hermione a searching look.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade growled. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"

"Bloody hell," John gasped and that's when Hermione realised what the photo was of.

"That's my flat!" she whispered, suddenly feeling like she'd just touched a ghost.

"_Your _flat?" Lestrade couldn't contain his astonishment.

"Why's a picture of my flat on that phone?" Hermione asked, her voice shaking. "How did it get there? No one's ever been in it except you two and Mrs Hudson since I redecorated it." John put his hand on her shoulder to try and calm her down.

"The pips are a warning," Sherlock explained.

"I don't care about some pips," Hermione scoffed.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that," Sherlock continued, ignoring her. "Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again." He pushed past her to exit the office.

"What's going to happen again?" she asked, fearing the answer.

He threw his arms apart dramatically. "Boom!"

* * *

The taxi journey back to Baker Street seemed to last forever as Hermione fretted over the meaning of that photograph. John quietly filled her in about the phone being the only object to survive the explosion – which was made to _look_ like a gas leak. The phone was in an envelope addressed to Sherlock, which was why Lestrade had called him in.

"What time was it when you left your flat?" The inspector asked as they vacated the taxi.

"I left just after seven to pick up Crookshanks from the vets," Hermione replied, hurrying to unlock the front door. "I came back about quarter to eight but I went straight upstairs."

"Whoever took the photo could have done so at any time in the last four weeks," John pointed out but Hermione shook her head.

"I'd know if someone had been in here," she said. The wards she had in place were pretty advanced – a habit from her travels with Harry. If anyone other than Mrs Hudson or herself tried to enter 221C she would be alerted at once – or at least that's what _should_ happen. She wished that she could investigate what was going on with her wards but with Sherlock, John and a DI right next to her it would have to wait. She had a really horrible feeling about what lay down there. Her hand trembled as she brought her key up to the lock.

"Let me do it," John offered but Hermione shook her head. It had to be her. The key slotted into the hole and she turned it, pulling the door open. She hesitated on the threshold and Sherlock snuck past her.

"I'll go first," he decided.

Hermione gave herself a mental shake. She was a Gryffindor for Merlin's sake. She'd been in far more dangerous situations than this.

Following Sherlock down the stairs she kept herself alert for anything that was different about the place since that morning. It wasn't very hard to spot the change; a pair of trainers sat in the middle of her carpet.

"Those aren't mine," Hermione said, somewhat pointlessly for they obviously belonged to a male.

Sherlock started to walk towards them.

"He's a bomber, remember," John cautioned, making Sherlock pause for a moment, before continuing more slowly. He carefully lowered himself down until his face was just a couple of inches from the shoes when suddenly a phone started to ring. It was the pink phone in Sherlock's coat pocket.

Hermione started. "Phones shouldn't ring in here. Th-there's never any signal."

Sherlock spared her a glance as he took the phone out and answered the call, putting it on speakerphone. "Hello?"

Whoever was on the other end breathed shakily. Hermione shivered, goosebumps making their way up her arm.

"H-hello…sexy."

It was a woman's voice. She sounded terrified and choked up with tears. They all exchanged puzzled looks as the woman sobbed.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked.

"I've…sent you…a little puzzle…just to say hi," the tearful voice replied.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock queried.

"I-I'm not…crying…I'm typing…and this…stupid…bitch…is reading it out," The woman sobbed.

"The curtain rises," Sherlock said softly to himself.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"No, what did you mean?" John demanded.

"I've been expecting this for some time," Sherlock explained.

"Twelve hours to solve… my puzzle, Sherlock," the woman, clearly a hostage, continued. "…or I'm going…to be…so naughty." The phone went dead.

Hermione shivered violently. She wasn't naïve enough to think that with Voldemort gone there would be no evil left in the world but she hadn't expected to come across someone like this quite so soon. This person enjoyed playing with someone else's life just to get Sherlock to solve a puzzle!

"Are you alright?" John asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"I'll be fine," Hermione replied. "It's just a bit of a shock."

"Of course, that's understandable," John reasoned.

Yes, someone breaking into your home was bad, but what none of them understood was that only someone with advanced magical knowledge would have been able to undo her wards without alerting her. It was quite an important detail in this case but she didn't know whether she should tell them. Mycroft had warned her against such an action only an hour ago…

Her phone beeped an alert, making them all flinch. "Sorry," she muttered, taking the phone out.

She scoffed at the message, attracting John's interest.

"Wait, that's not another one of those texts, is it?" he asked. "I thought you changed your number."

"I did," she muttered.

John glanced at the screen and read, "Roses are red…" He frowned at her. "Hermione, that's a bit…"

"Creepy, yes, I know." She stuffed her phone deep into her pocket.

"Hermione has a stalker, big deal, now will you both kindly shut up." Sherlock snapped at them as he got back on the floor to look at the trainers.

First there was Mycroft warning her about her magic, then her flat being magically broken into, a woman being held hostage by some madman and now her anonymous texter had decided to up their game. What an excellent day this was turning out to be.

* * *

Hermione placed the Styrofoam cup of coffee on the bench with a scowl. Sherlock didn't acknowledge her at all, continuing to peer through the microscope. The trainers from her flat sat on the bench next to him looking perfectly innocent.

A phone's message alert beeped and Hermione jumped, afraid that it was hers but the alarm was slightly different.

"Pass me my phone," Sherlock instructed. John and Hermione looked around the room.

"Where is it?" John questioned.

"Jacket."

"The one you're wearing?" Hermione asked in disbelief.

"Yes."

"You're closest," John pointed out, seemingly glad to be on the other side of the room. "And you're on work experience, remember?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and started rifling through Sherlock's pockets. Maybe she should have gone in to work today anyway – nothing she had to do there was as tedious as fulfilling Sherlock's ridiculous errands. She finally located the phone in the inside pocket and held it out for Sherlock but he ignored her. She sighed and looked at the mobile for herself.

"It's a text from your brother," she informed him.

"Delete it," Sherlock responded shortly.

"Don't you want to know what it says?" she asked.

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it," Sherlock muttered, correctly assuming the text was checking up on the case Mycroft wanted him to take on.

"I don't think your brother's going to give up that easily," Hermione commented still looking at his phone. "He's texted you about it eight times."

"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?" Sherlock pointed out, finally raising his head from the microscope.

"His what?" John sighed.

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk," Sherlock explained. "Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

Hermione frowned at Sherlock's evident enjoyment of trying to solve the puzzle some highly dangerous person had set him. She shoved the phone back in his pocket slightly harder than necessary.

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die," John reminded him coldly.

"What for?" Sherlock asked in confusion. "This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

John looked like he wanted to punch his friend and Hermione tried to ignore Sherlock's comments. What made Sherlock so good at his scientific deduction was also what made him hard to like sometimes.

A computer near him beeped and Sherlock yelled in delight. The door to the lab swung open and Molly Hooper walked in. Hermione had been introduced to the young forensic pathologist earlier.

"Any luck?" she enquired of Sherlock.

"Oh, yes!" he said in triumph.

The door to the lab opened again and a man in his thirties wearing ordinary clothing came in and then paused, looking apologetic.

"Oh, sorry," he said. "I didn't…"

Molly beamed at him. "Jim! Hi! Come in, come in!" Jim closed the door and walked over to the excited Molly while Sherlock surveyed her with a sideways glance. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." She looked at Hermione and then John with apologetic expressions. "And, uh…sorry."

"John Watson. Hi," John introduced himself and Hermione moved forward holding out a hand.

"Hermione," she said as he shook it. "Nice to meet you. I'm, er, just on work experience."

"Oh, right, hi," Jim replied, looking at them all in fascination. His eyes moved back to Sherlock and then stayed there. "So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" Jim walked closer to Sherlock and Hermione took a step back to allow him past.

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," Molly explained as she and Jim exchanged happy smiles.

Sherlock glanced at Jim for a second before turning back to the microscope. "Gay," he muttered, effectively wiping the smile off Molly's face.

"Sorry, what?" she asked.

Sherlock looked up, for once becoming aware of his social blunder. "Nothing." He looked round at Jim with a clearly false smile. "Um, hey."

"Hey." Jim smiled back before accidentally knocking a metal dish off the edge of the bench with his hand. "Sorry! Sorry!" Jim muttered nervously as he ducked down to pick it up. Hermione winced at Sherlock's obvious irritation.

With the dish once again back on the bench Jim wandered back towards Molly. "Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?" he suggested to Molly and she nodded, attempting enthusiasm.

"Yeah!"

"Bye," he said, placing a hand on her back.

"Bye," she replied softly.

"It was nice to meet you," Jim spoke primarily to Sherlock but he ignored him.

"You too," John replied, breaking the awkward silence.

Jim nodded at him. "Good luck with your work experience," he said to Hermione and she gave him a small smile.

"Thank you."

Jim turned and left through the door. Molly waited for it to close before turning to Sherlock angrily.

"What do you mean, 'gay'? We're together," she pointed out.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly; you've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Sherlock!" Hermione admonished. Did he know nothing about women?

Molly clenched her jaw. "Two and a half."

"Three."

"Sherlock…" John warned.

"He's _not _gay," Molly insisted angrily. "Why do you have to spoil… He's not."

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John retorted "_I_ put product in my hair."

"You wash your hair. There's a difference," Sherlock maintained. "No, no: tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear.

"His underwear?" Molly repeated in shock.

"Visible above the waistline, very visible, very particular brand," he explained before reaching over to the metal dish Jim knocked over and removing something from underneath. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here," he showed her a small white card, "and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly stared at Sherlock for a second, looking as though she'd like nothing more than to stab him in the chest, before turning tail and running from the room.

"Charming. Well done," John mocked but Sherlock looked confused.

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?" he asked.

"Kinder?" John repeated in disbelief and Hermione shook her head. "No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind."

Hermione sighed and walked towards the door. "I'm going to go and see if she's okay."

The corridor was deserted. She looked left and right for an indication of which way to go. When she'd gone to get Sherlock's coffee she'd noticed some toilets near by. She walked in that direction – it was as good a place to start as any.

Hermione put her hand on the door to the ladies' toilets when a voice behind her made her jump.

"Hi, again." It was Jim.

"Oh, hi," Hermione replied, turning around. Now that she was aware of them, Hermione couldn't help but notice some of the details Sherlock had told her about. She didn't have anything against Jim if he was gay but she strongly objected to him possibly leading Molly on and leaving his number to proposition someone else, especially while Molly was in the same room.

Jim opened his mouth to speak, probably to say something about how amazing he thought Sherlock was, but Hermione cut across him. "Look, I know you probably thought you were being subtle in there with the card under the dish, but Sherlock notices everything. He can't resist showing off when everyone else has missed something and now Molly knows what you did."

"Sherlock got my card?" he reiterated.

"Yes, but Molly's really ups – "

"D'you think he'll call?" Jim interrupted hopefully.

"No!" Hermione replied in annoyance. Her opinion of Jim was decreasing with every word he said. "You should be more concerned about Molly; Sherlock didn't exactly break the news to her gently."

Jim at last had the decency to look worried. "Why wouldn't he call?"

If Hermione had been free to do so she would have happily sent a flock of angry birds in Jim's direction. Instead, she employed a different way of communicating to males they were being despicable, and slapped him hard around the face.

The impact sounded ridiculously loud in the sparse corridor as Jim's head was forced to one side. For a split second something more menacing glinted in his eyes but then it was replaced with a more vacant surprise and indignation.

"Stay away from Molly," she warned, ignoring the stinging in her hand. She entered the toilets, glad to be away from creepy Jim's presence, but unfortunately there was no sign of Molly. She stayed for a couple of minutes to make sure that Jim had definitely gone. While she waited she checked her phone and was irritated to see that she had just received a new message: _Violets are blue…_

* * *

A/N Hopefully part two will be up on Monday or Tuesday. It just needs a bit of fine-tuning.

It would be great to hear from as many of you as possible!

Love,

Lil Drop of Magic


	7. Chapter Three ii-The Van Buren Supernova

A/N This is earlier than expected! Your reviews were so awesome and we reached the magical 100 (thanks Hannanora Potter!) that I decided to treat you. Yes, this part is shorter, but the third part is pretty long and this was the most sensible cut I could make. There's more borrowed dialogue here too.

* * *

Chapter Three (Part Two) – The Van Buren Supernova

"Hello?" John said, answering his phone.

"John," It was Hermione, "I've just got out of work. Where are you? Is there a new case? Can I help?"

"We're on our way to the Planetarium," John explained as the bright lights of London flashed past. "We're trying to prove that the new Vermeer painting's a fake. We think that's why one of their security guards was killed and it might have something to do with a Professor Cairns."

"Right, the Planetarium. That's not far away from me at all, I'll be there in a couple of minutes," Hermione replied and she hung up.

"Wait- damn, I didn't get to warn her about this 'Golem' character." John muttered, putting his phone away.

"Warn who?" Sherlock asked, seemingly oblivious to the fact that John had been on the phone.

"Hermione. She's going to meet us there."

"Well, if she does come across the Golem I wouldn't worry; she can always make herself reappear in a completely different place," Sherlock suggested, making John sigh in exasperation. "Or she can blind him and knock him out with nothing but her bare hands."

"Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you to just let it go?" John groaned.

"Mycroft knows about her past," Sherlock continued, ignoring him. "He alluded to it before he made her escort him down the stairs." He suddenly turned to John in anger. "Why did you stop me from listening in on their conversation? We could have found out something?"

"Sherlock, focus!" John snapped. "Whatever you think is going on with Hermione isn't important at the moment; the painting, the bomber, _that's_ what you need to be concentrating on right now." The taxi came to a stop and they stepped into the night. "Hermione's got enough on her mind with that break in, her stalkerish texter and trying to help you in whatever way she can, _without_ you attempting to prove that she's an aberration of the laws of physics."

"John! Sherlock!" Hermione cried, hurrying over to them. "So, what are we doing here?"

John explained about Professor Cairns leaving an answer-phone message for the murdered man as Sherlock stalked before them, throwing open doors and striding about importantly.

Loud music was coming from the next room they tried which was labelled 'theatre'. They hurried inside, finding the room quite dimly lit, but it wasn't hard to spot the abnormally large figure standing by the sound system.

"Golem!" Sherlock yelled as John took out his pistol and aimed it at the assassin.

"Who's _that?!_" Hermione gasped and John realised that he'd still forgotten to warn her about the huge man. "Oh no, is that Profess-"

A crack could be heard as the Golem snapped Professor Cairn's neck and dropped her to the floor. The action must have trigged something on the sound system for the footage that had been projected around the theatre went into fast forward and the room was plunged into complete darkness.

"Where's he gone?" Hermione cried for the Golem had ducked out of sight.

"John!" Sherlock called.

"I can't see him, I'll go round," John volunteered, running to the side. "I'll go."

The video played, fast forwarded and stopped in a confusing fashion. The lights flickered on and off as they desperately searched for the attacker.

"Who are you working for this time, Dundza?" Sherlock yelled loudly.

John moved quickly between the aisles of seats but there no sign of him.

"Sherlock!" Hermione shrieked causing John to look back. The Golem had one hand held tightly over Sherlock's face, while the other gripped his neck. John raced to the stage, watching as Hermione launched herself at the Golem. She grabbed onto the arm that was around Sherlock's neck and heaved. Despite her slight frame the Golem staggered slightly. He relinquished his hold on Sherlock's neck for a moment and swung his fist at Hermione's head with such force that she flew forwards and skidded right off the front of the stage. John hoped that she was okay but the immediate threat was still the Golem, as he renewed his effort to snuff the life out of Sherlock.

John ran onto the stage and levelled his gun at the Golem's head. "Golem! Let him go or I _will_ kill you."

In response the Golem kicked out a leg and knocked the gun from John's hands. There followed a desperate two minutes as together, he and Sherlock both tried to stop the Golem from killing them and somehow subdue him, but it was no use. When Sherlock managed to get his hand on the gun again, the Golem ran for the door. Sherlock fired twice but the hitman escaped.

* * *

"Oh, great." Hermione muttered, looking at her phone.

John always thought that Hermione looked very, well, pretty for lack of a better word. But there was no denying that today wasn't one of her better days. Her right temple still sported a rather large bump from last night, with additional bruising colouring it. She looked exhausted too, as they'd had to keep her awake most of the night to check that she hadn't sustained a more serious injury after she claimed to be feeling nauseated. As it was a Saturday today, she could have stayed home and rested with Mrs Hudson but she wouldn't hear of it. And now something on her phone had put a scowl on her face.

"Another line from your poem?" John asked. They were on the way to the Hickman Gallery to confront Miss Wenceslas about the painting's forgery.

"_Roses are red, violets are blue, wherever you go, I'm watching you."_ Hermione drilled tonelessly.

Sherlock grunted. "There's no originality in stalking these days."

Her phone buzzed again and she sighed as she tapped on it. A familiar tune started to emanate from the device and Hermione's eyes widened, "_Merlin,_" she breathed.

"What is it?" John asked leaning forward in his seat to see what had affected her so.

"I- I can't make it stop!" she cried, tapping away furiously at the screen.

Sherlock watched curiously as John took the phone from her. He could see at once why she was upset.

"_Every breath you take, _

_Every move you make, _

_Every bond you break,_

_Every step you take I'll be watching you." _

It was a slideshow of pictures of Hermione set to one of the creepiest songs of all time. The photos were your average stalker fare: Hermione walking down various streets, Hermione walking up the front stairs of the Chinese theatre they'd visited, Hermione eating lunch at a café and Hermione buying food shopping. Some of them were very recent, such as one where she was carrying Crookshanks in a carry case just after the explosion and ones of her about to enter St Bart's and Scotland Yard.

"This is getting ridiculous," John said as Sting continued to sing away. He thrust the phone at Sherlock. "You've got to do something about this. It'll probably take you about ten seconds to find whoever's responsible."

Hermione looked to be on the point of tears. "No!" She shook her head. "I mean, yes, it does need to be stopped but," she took a deep breath, "we should wait until all this business is over. I don't want to distract you when people's lives might be at risk," she said to Sherlock.

"_Your_ life might be at risk," John pointed out in frustration. Why was she trying to be all noble about this? "Whoever's sending you this is a complete psycho, Hermione! They know where you live, they _follow_ you. If you keep on ignoring them then they might be tempted to do something rash."

"We're here," Hermione announced and promptly got out of the taxi.

The song on the phone drew to a close and then instantly started up again. John groaned. "What do you make of all this, then?" he asked Sherlock, indicating the phone Sherlock still held.

Sherlock flipped the phone over, slid the back off and pulled out the battery, effectively ending the song. "Until she's more honest about her background I can say nothing for certain," Sherlock answered, almost petulantly, as he passed the phone back to John.

John exited the taxi, piecing the phone back together as he walked over to where Hermione was standing with Lestrade.

"Still on work experience, I see," the inspector was saying to her. "That run in with the Golem didn't put you off?"

Hermione tentatively touched her right temple. "No."

"Know anything about paintings or forgeries?" he asked conversationally.

"Not much," Hermione admitted, "but I know a bit about astronomy. It's one of my hobbies."

"Here you go," John said, giving her back her phone. "It's stopped singing now."

"_Singing?_" Lestrade repeated then shook his head. "Never mind. Let's go."

Miss Wenceslas did not look happy to see them but with Lestrade present she agreed to take them to the painting. Sherlock walked up to it and started tapping into his phone while the others hung back. "It's a fake," he muttered. "It has to be."

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to man," Miss Wenceslas stated confidently.

Sherlock turned and glared at her. "It's a very _good_ fake then."

"If you know about astronomy then go and have a look," John whispered to Hermione. "Sherlock didn't even know that the Earth goes around the sun! There must be a reason that Professor Cairns was involved in this and you're more likely to know why."

"Alright," she nodded nervously.

"Inspector, my time is being wasted," Miss Wenceslas announced as Hermione went to take a look at the painting. "Would you mind showing these people out?"

A shrill ringing echoed throughout the gallery and Sherlock whipped out the pink phone from his coat pocket. "The painting is a fake."

In response there was only the sound of faint breathing from the other end. John watched Hermione point at different stars on the painting.

"It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed," Sherlock elaborated but there was still nothing but breathing in reply. "Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. That's it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed." Still there was silence. "Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

"Ten."

Sherlock whirled back to the painting as the reality of who this new hostage was dawned on the others.

"It's a kid. Oh, God it's a _kid!"_ Lestrade cried.

Hermione stepped to the side, reading the small plaque beside the painting.

"Nine."

"It's a countdown," Sherlock muttered, seemingly unaware of Hermione's presence. "He's giving me time."

"Jesus!" Lestrade cursed.

"The painting is a fake but how can I prove it?" Sherlock muttered to himself. "How? How?"

John held a hand over his mouth. He couldn't believe anyone could do this to a child.

"Eight."

"This kid will die." Sherlock glared at Miss Wenceslas. "Tell me why the painting is a fake. Tell me!" he barked, but instantly held up a hand as though to stop her.

"Seven."

"That star didn't exist when this was supposed to have been painted!" Hermione cried pointing to the offending bit of paint.

"_NO!" _Sherlock turned to her in fury and the line went dead. Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth. "It only works if _I_ work it out!"

"Oh, my God," John whispered. They'd heard the phone go dead before. Twelve people had died when the hostage had started to describe her captor.

"What have I done?" Hermione breathed, tears already making a path down her cheeks. She turned and ran for the nearest door, sobbing.

"Hermione!" John called walking quickly to follow her.

"You'd better come with me, Miss Wenceslas." Lestrade said, eyes wide, taking the shocked woman by the arm.

"We heard it last night," Sherlock muttered mostly to himself, staring at the star Hermione had pointed to. "The Van Buren Supernova only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight and therefore couldn't possibly be on something that was supposed to be painted in the sixteen forties." Sherlock furiously pushed over some queue barriers. The sound echoed monstrously in the large room. "Why didn't I solve it?!"

John found Hermione slumped just outside the main door to the gallery. She had her knees tucked up to her chest and she was sobbing into her arms. She didn't seem to notice that John was there so he just sat down next to her. Before he knew it she had more or less tackled him and was crying heartily onto his shoulder. John patted her on the back awkwardly.

"It's okay," he said softly, but instantly regretted it when Hermione lifted her head with an angry expression.

"How can you say that?" she demanded. "I've just killed at least one person and who knows how many others!"

"You _didn't_ kill him," John insisted.

"Yes I did!" she cried, pushing herself off of him. She moved to stand a couple of feet away with her arms folded and head bowed. She was shivering violently but John knew it had nothing to do with the cold. "E-everyone always called me a kn-know-it-all at school but I-I didn't really care," she admitted. "I didn't see h-how knowing the answer c-could be a bad thing." She swallowed and some more teardrops fell to the floor. "In there I was just so _relieved _to figure it out, to be able to help, that my mouth got carried away with me."

"The bomb might have exploded anyway," John pointed out as he pulled himself to his feet. "We were running out of time."

"But I could've done something to point Sherlock in the right direction," she moaned, "I- I- I could've written it down, there was enough time for that." She looked up at the clouds and then closed her eyes. "I hate myself," she whispered after a few seconds of silence.

"What? Hate the madman who's behind all this!" John told her angrily. "None of this is your fault!"

She opened her eyes and looked at him with such sorrow that it made his insides freeze for a second. "I'm never going to believe that."

They heard footsteps and Hermione started to move quickly away from the building. "Where are you going?" John called after her.

"I can't face him. I just can't. He must hate me almost as much as I do." Hermione answered over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, John. Tell _him_ I'm sorry." She disappeared round the corner as the front doors to the gallery opened and Sherlock walked stiffly out of the building.

"They're taking Miss Wenceslas for questioning at the Yard," he said without looking at John. "Come on."

John looked pensively at Sherlock and then glanced at the corner where Hermione had run to, wondering how he was going to fix his friends. He knew that each of them blamed themself for what had just happened but as far as he was concerned the only person whose fault this was, was the bomber.

* * *

Hermione traced the base of the wine glass, barely registering its smoothness. She stared at the golden contents for a while before making a decision. She lifted the glass to her lips and took a large gulp, followed by another and another until she'd drained the contents. She shuddered at the unfamiliar taste and laughed bitterly. What a cliché – drowning her sorrows alone in a booth at a pub in the middle of the afternoon.

She wasn't stupid enough to think that drinking alcohol would solve her problems but it might make the gut-wrenching pain bearable for a couple of hours.

Her phoned trilled out a message and she scowled at it, fearing that it was from the anonymous texter, but it was from John: _Miss Wenceslas admitted that this is Moriarty's doing._ _Going to do some more investigating about West's death. Want to come? Hope you're okay._

Hermione turned her phone off, ignoring the text and poured herself another glass of wine. A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye and she brushed it away, amazed that she had any tears left to shed.

Nothing, _nothing,_ that she had been through in her years at Hogwarts had made her feel as guilty, heartbroken or devastated as this. She'd happily go through another session with Bellatrix if it could change what she'd done. Merlin, she'd even given up her magic.

She drank some more wine.

There was no point thinking like that. It wouldn't stop that bomb from having exploded; nothing would except for a time-turner and there was no way the ministry would let her mess around with one of those again.

She'd purposefully avoided going near news stands, or going on to the internet for fear of finding out the extent of the damage. She wasn't ready to count how many lives she'd ruined just yet.

Wine was good company, Hermione decided as she poured out the rest of her bottle into her glass. Wine didn't spout lies to try and make you feel better, it didn't stare at you with intense eyes that made you feel stupid and insignificant, you didn't have to worry about wine discovering your secret at any moment, wine didn't forget about you the minute it got an exciting job, but most importantly of all; the wine didn't know about the boy.

"Bad day, luv?" The bartender asked, coming to collect her empty wine bottle. He was in his fifties, overweight and looked like he'd worked in a bar all his life.

"You have no idea," Hermione slurred, shaking her head.

He noticed the bruising on her head. "Boyfriend trouble?"

"Mmhmm," Hermione affirmed, because it was much nicer to pretend that was true.

He walked away and returned a minute later with a couple of very small plastic cups filled with clear liquid. "'Ere you go, luv, on the 'ouse. Get those down you and you won't even remember 'is name."

Hermione peered at the tiny cups in confusion and then shrugged her shoulders. She wanted to forget after all. She picked one of them up and sniffed at it. Even with her limited knowledge of alcohol and current inebriated state, she could tell that they were very strong. She poured them down her throat in quick succession and grimaced at the burning sensation they left in their wake.

A few minutes later someone sat down on the bench opposite her and she gazed blearily at them. "Oh, no, not you," she groaned.

It was Jim. What on earth he was doing here Hermione didn't know and nor did she care to find out.

"Is everything all right?" he asked. "You don't look too good."

"'Sfine," Hermione muttered, looking down and struggling to put her arms through her coat sleeves. She grabbed her glass and drained what was left of her wine. "I was just leavin'."

Her eyes started to close. She tried to force them open but her body wasn't responding. The world was turning black.

* * *

A/N Cliffhanger! To be fair, I haven't actually given you a cliffie yet and I'm normally very fond of them. At least you won't have long to wait. Unsurprisingly the next update isn't all sunshine and daisies, so if you're easily disturbed then you might want to treat part three with a bit of caution.

It's worth noting that the Van Buren Supernova doesn't actually exist, the writers just made it up for the show, but given Hermione's ability in Astronomy I think she'd be very quick to spot a 'mistake' like that in the painting. Oh, and the song that is sent to Hermione's phone is 'Every Breath You Take' by The Police, which I think we can all agree is a pretty creepy song.

Until next time!

Lil Drop of Magic


	8. Chapter Three iii - The Swimming Pool

A/N I kept you waiting a bit longer than usual – sorry about that! Thanks for all the love. I'm glad I've gotten round to replying to some of you this time, I'll try to do that more often.

In case you've forgotten, I don't own anything to do with Harry Potter or Sherlock, especially all the dialogue I've borrowed once again. And also, remember that Jim's not a very nice guy so please be prepared. I don't think there's anything too bad – this fic is rated T after all. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Three (Part Three) – The Swimming Pool

The journey back into consciousness was a slow and painful one. The more aware Hermione became of herself, the more uncomfortable she became. Her head was pounding mercilessly, her stomach churned, her neck and shoulders ached and her throat burned. Worst of all though, was the panic she felt when she opened her eyes and realised she didn't have any idea where she was.

It was a reasonably large room, but so dimly lit it was hard to tell much else about it, except that it had a very strong chemical smell. She was sat on a cold floor. Her arms had been pinned to her sides and her entire torso had been tied to a pole to stop her from moving an inch. That meant that apparating herself out of there wasn't an option.

She cast her mind back and recalled Jim's look of concern as he asked her if she was all right. That was pretty much the last thing she remembered, making Jim the number one suspect in her abduction.

Now there was nothing she could do but wait for her captor to show themselves and then… what? Was he going to kill her? Beat her? Rape her? All three?

She was obviously scared, but it seemed that whatever Jim has used to cause her to slip into unconsciousness hadn't worn off properly, for she found herself drifting back to sleep.

It was the turning on of the lights that woke her for the second time. They hummed noisily and seemed almost blinding after the darkness she'd just come from. After waiting for her eyes to get accustomed to the glare she could see just where she was. In a changing room, a muggle changing room of all places and going by the chemical smell she'd detected earlier, there must be a swimming pool close by.

Why would anyone take her here?

Hermione tensed as she heard footsteps approach on the tiled floor. The silhouette of a man's head showed in the glass at the top of a door. She tried again to turn herself to apparate but the ropes that bound her were just too strong.

The door opened. It _was_ Jim. But not quite the same Jim that she remembered. This Jim was wearing a stylish, dark suit and held himself with a menacing confidence. His eyes bored into hers and they were the eyes she'd glimpsed just after she'd slapped him at St Bart's. That man, 'Molly's boyfriend', had been a front, an act, for the true Jim stood before her.

"Wh-what am I doing here?" she called with as much bravery as she could muster. She didn't want him to see how terrified she was. As far as she knew, nobody would have any idea where she was. None of her magical friends would even know she was missing, while John and Sherlock probably thought she wanted to be left alone. She was completely at the mercy of this man. Her only hope was that he'd loosen the ropes around her and then she'd be able to apparate away.

Jim took a couple of steps forward, his hands in his trouser pockets. "I've heard that you've had a _bad_ day." He spoke with an Irish lilt, all trace of his London accent gone. His tone was mocking, as though he was talking to a two year old child and he stuck out his bottom lip. "Did you not want to play with the other children?"

"_Ten._"

Hermione's heart froze as the familiar voice was played into the room and she realised at once who Jim must be: Moriarty.

"_Nine._"

"Ooh, a voice from the dead! How thrilling!" Moriarty trilled, beaming in excitement and rising up to the balls of his feet.

Hermione closed her eyes to block him out. His delight was repulsive.

"_Eight._"

"_Look at me!_" Moriarty bellowed but Hermione kept her eyes screwed up tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction. A sudden, painful impact on her ankle made her cry out in alarm and her eyes to open.

"_Seven._"

"Do you want to hear what happened next?" Moriarty asked, eyes wide, like she was in for a big treat.

Hermione shook her head. Her vision mercifully blurred by tears.

"I'm sorry," Moriarty said, all manners now. "I didn't quite hear you."

"No," she whispered. Moriarty stamped down on her ankle again. "_No!_"

The sound of an explosion erupted in the room, shuddering through her. Moriarty turned on the spot looking triumphant. And then came the screams. The desperate shrieks. The cries of anguish.

The sorrow in her chest was so overwhelming that she wanted to howl until her throat bled, to cry until there wasn't a drop of water left in her body, to tear away at Moriarty until there was nothing left. But she couldn't. With him there she couldn't even look away. All she could do was sit there and simmer with rage.

"Quite a tally you managed to rack up there." Moriarty nodded, looking impressed, once the screams had finally been turned off. "Twenty-six dead, nearly all children. Young boy called Timothy Hancock was waiting for his sister's ballet class to finish when _what do you know_," he crouched down next to her. "A right answer is given by the _wrong_ person and pft," he clicked his fingers, "it's all over. Such a shame." He took a lock of her hair between his fingers but she jerked her head, pulling it out of his grasp.

"Go to hell," she hissed as venomously as she could.

"Mmm, feisty," Moriarty whispered rolling his shoulders. "I like that. It should make the rest of the evening rather entertaining." He stared at her for a few moments and then without warning slapped her hard across the face. "That was for the other day," he announced, then stood waggling the fingers of his hand. "Tingly."

Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye and tried to ignore the flaming pain in her cheek. His actions and emotions were so sporadic it was impossible to anticipate what he was going to do next.

He put his hands back in his pockets and stared down at her. "Now, in answer to your original question, you're here because I'm frankly quite fascinated by you. Surely my texts could have told you that." He laughed at the flash of surprise on her face. "Oh, good, I _do_ love it when there's an unexpected twist in the tale."

Hermione glared. "I can't think there's anything about me that you would find fascinating," she lied. They both knew what he'd been referring to. She knew from the moment someone had successfully broken into her flat and expertly outmanoeuvred her wards.

Moriarty looked disappointed. "Oh, you won't be wanting this back then?" He withdrew a hand from his pocket and held out her wand. Hermione fought against her bonds even though she knew it was pointless. Moriarty held it up to his eyes and grasped it at either end. "Such a flimsy looking thing," he commented and started to bend it.

"No!" Hermione cried. Moriarty paused in his actions and raised an eyebrow.

"What's the magic word?" he mocked.

Hermione swallowed. "Please."

"There's a good girl." He popped the wand back into his pocket. "I'll just hold on to it for safekeeping while we have a little chat."

A chat? Was that all he wanted? Their conversation had been anything but fun so far but just talking to this madman would mean she was getting off lightly.

"It seems silly to keep you all tied up when I know you're not going to disappear." He plucked at the rope under her chin. "It's sexier, yes, but quite unnecessary."

Hermione tried not to let the hope show on her face. If he was stupid enough to untie her then she wouldn't waste time getting away from here, even if he had her beloved wand. She could always get a new one after all.

"Do you want to see why you'll behave?" Moriarty queried sweetly. She highly doubted that she'd like what he had to show her but she knew there was only one answer he wanted to hear.

"Yes, please," she muttered, adding the second word on quickly to avoid angering him.

The door to the changing room opened again and Hermione gasped. "John!"

He had a bomb strapped to his chest. He looked as though he was trying to keep calm, possibly for her sake, but Hermione could see how quickly he was breathing. "Let him go!" she cried in anger, kicking out with one of her legs in Moriarty's direction.

"Ah!" Moriarty said warningly, catching her leg and squeezing it tightly. "You're supposed to behave, remember? You don't want to be responsible for another bombing, do you?" Hermione whimpered and shook her head as Moriarty continued to crush her leg. "Because that's what'll happen if you leave before the main event. And believe me, you won't want to miss it." He dropped her leg.

"I'm sorry, John," she said in a quavering voice. John didn't reply but gazed concernedly back at her.

"I'm afraid I've stripped him of his right to free speech," Moriarty told her conversationally. "We're practicing for later. Watch." He walked to the other end of the changing room and John tensed before stiffly saying the words that Moriarty was obviously narrating in his ear.

"Although these words…are being forced from me… it doesn't stop them… from being utterly true… Hermione you have no idea… how much I want," his eyes widened in shock and he stopped before glaring over at Moriarty.

"Come on, Johnny boy," Moriarty called jovially across the room. "Don't be shy, we both know you want to." Hermione looked on in confusion as John clenched his fists but remained resolutely silent. "You really don't want to know what I'll do to her if you don't say it," Moriarty warned lowly.

John sighed and closed his eyes. "To fuck you," he said quietly. Despite the obvious danger of the whole situation Hermione could still feel herself blushing. John avoided her gaze but she could tell that he felt utterly humiliated. Another wave of anger swept over her and she watched furiously as Moriarty walked back towards them with a mischievous grin.

"Well that was certainly amusing. I'm sure it's nice to finally get that off your chest. Well done, Dr Watson. And I know you'll play your part to perfection later." He made a dismissing gesture with his hand. John finally caught her eyes with a sorrowful expression and backed out of the room. "He's not really here for you," Moriarty shrugged. "But then _you're_ not really here for you either!"

"Sherlock." Whatever game Moriarty was playing with her now, this whole thing had been about Sherlock from the start.

"Yes!" He grinned. "I thought it was about time we all sat down and had a bit of family time together." He crouched down next to her again and pulled something out of his other pocket but it looked like nothing more than a small box. "But he's not going to be here for a little while yet, so you and I have a bit of time to play." He flicked a button on the box and a wickedly sharp looking blade sprang out of it. "Now, let's get these off you." He held the serrated part of the blade against the top rope, just below her left shoulder and started to saw it away.

Hermione tried not to think about the 'fun' Moriarty had planned for later. Watching him saw a dangerous knife closer and closer to her skin was frightening enough as it was.

"I know all about you," he claimed. "Not just what you are. Hermione Granger, only child of dentists. Gryffindor and top in practically every class. Whoops." The first rope snapped suddenly and his knife bit into her arm. She flinched but refused to show any other reaction.

He carried on sawing the next part of the rope. He could have easily unwound the rest of the constraints but he seemed to be enjoying himself too much. "You're a founding member of Dumbledore's Army and helped your best friend Harry Potter to defeat the dastardly Lord Voldemort," he put on a dramatic, storyteller's voice and she flinched again as another rope broke.

"I should thank you, really, for moving in with Sherlock because if you hadn't I don't think I ever would have found out about your secret world." Another rope gone, another small slice to her skin. "You just can't seem to help getting mixed up in dangerous situations, can you? You'd think you'd have learnt how to pick more suitable friends." This time the knife cut deeper and she took a sharp breath. He glanced down at his hand and saw her blood was starting to stain it. He backed away, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her blood off.

Hermione flexed her arms and the rest of the ropes fell away. She pushed up the sleeve of her shirt to inspect the damage. Four red lines shone wetly in the light but they seemed relatively shallow.

"And what do we have here?" Moriarty whispered, pulling Hermione to her knees by her wrist to stare at her forearm. The glamour spell she'd placed on herself earlier that day must have worn off, for the word 'mudblood' stood out in stark contrast against her pale skin. He ran the tip of his knife under the letters, bringing up a new red line.

"It means – "

"I know what it means," Moriarty snapped. "Who wrote it?"

"S-someone who thought I'd taken something. They wanted to know what I knew," Hermione explained quickly. "It won't fade away."

He stared at it, almost hungrily and Hermione held her breath until, to her relief, he dropped her arm. He turned away from her and she took a few deep breaths to try and calm herself a little. She glanced up and saw that Moriarty had taken off his jacket and was in the process of rolling up his sleeves.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she stammered, a feeling of dread pooling in her stomach.

Moriarty regarded her coldly. "That little carving serves as a constant reminder as to why you will never fit perfectly into that world."

She shuffled backwards as he walked towards her, tears once again forming in her eyes.

"So I'm going to give you one to remind you that you don't belong in this world either!"

"_No!" _she cried. She scrambled backwards but he grabbed her injured ankle and yanked her along the ground towards him. He climbed on top of her and pinned down her flailing limbs.

"Now I suggest you hold still," Moriarty whispered in her ear, "otherwise I might accidentally slice something I didn't intend to."

Hermione sobbed as he pulled up the sleeve on her right arm. The skin there was smooth, unblemished and he ran his fingers over it. "So pure," he said softly. "So innocent." He grinned at her. "We can soon change that."

Slowly he dragged the tip of his knife over a spot just next to her wrist. She screamed low in her throat but kept her mouth closed to stifle the sound. Quick as a flash, he held the knife to her throat. "Don't hold back on me, Hermione. I want John to hear your screams."

He turned back to his work and Moriarty got his wish as her tortured cries soon echoed through the room. He took his time to make the experience as painful as possible, drawing each cut out as slowly as he could.

A distant banging made Moriarty pause and laugh. "Unfortunately, I think our dear Dr Watson isn't enjoying listening to the show." He shrugged sheepishly. "It's a shame we've only just started."

It felt like her arm was on fire though she could feel that it was soaked in her own blood. She wished that she would just black out to make the pain stop but she wasn't that lucky.

"Done!" he crowed eventually. "A true work of art." He leaned over her and put his lips by her ear. "Now you'll remember that despite all your intelligence, your bravery, your Gryffindor loyalty, your friends and your _magic_, I could still have a bomb strapped to your friend's chest, you flat on your back and your life at a knifepoint." His bloodied hand swept some hair away from her eyes and he kissed her cheek almost tenderly. "You won't forget what I'm capable of."

He leant back and wiped his blade and hand on the midriff of her shirt before getting to his feet. "I don't need to remind you what'll happen to John if you move from this room," he said, folding his jacket over his arm. "Just sit by the door and wait for your cue; it's almost time."

He pushed the door open confidently and walked out of the room without a backwards glance.

Hermione glanced over at her arm, fearing the worse and saw that her forearm was almost completely red. There was more blood this time than when Bellatrix had attacked her and she worried that Moriarty had cut into a significant blood vessel. She sat up and inched her arm towards her, every movement sending fresh jolts of pain lancing along her nerves.

She didn't know how long she had until Moriarty would be back so she had to treat her arm quickly. There was a bathroom cubicle not far away so she attempted to get to her feet. When she tried to put weight on her injured ankle, she nearly fell back down and a wave of dizziness and nausea flared up again. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself before trying again. This time she managed to fight it all and hobble over to the toilet. She reached it just in time, collapsing onto the basin as she emptied the contents of her stomach.

Black spots appeared at the edge of her vision but she shook her head violently. She couldn't afford to pass out now.

There was toilet roll next to her and she yanked at it, wrapping it round and round her bloodied arm. She held it there for a few seconds and then took it off so she could see the damage more clearly.

The letters were larger this time (of course Moriarty would want to outdo her other arm), which explained why there was more blood. Hermione peered down at the word for the first time; _witch_. It wasn't as insulting as _mudblood_ but it served its purpose, for there would never be a day that went past without her thinking about Moriarty.

* * *

Sherlock opened the door to the main swimming pool. It was empty, but he had expected it to be. He walked slowly to the edge of the pool and turned to check for any sign of an ambush.

He clutched the memory stick in his hand and held it up. He knew neither John nor Hermione would be impressed that he was prepared to hand the missile plans over but that was why he had waited until they were out of the way to arrange the meeting. It was better that they weren't here anyway – who knew what the outcome of this meeting would be.

"Brought you a little getting to know you present," he called to the emptiness. "Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from this." He flourished the memory stick again and turned around to show the empty room. When he was half-way round, a door opened behind him and he looked over his shoulder to catch a first glimpse of Moriarty.

It was John. John Watson was here, coming to a meeting that Sherlock had arranged explicitly with Moriarty.

"Evening," John said evenly.

No, it didn't make sense.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John continued.

"John," Sherlock said softly. "What the hell...?"

John ignored him. "Bet you never saw _this_ coming."

Sherlock walked towards him, refusing to believe that this was happening, refusing to believe that his friend was capable of the suffering of the last couple of days.

The expression on John's face changed as he took his hands out of his pockets and opened up his coat to reveal a bomb strapped to his chest. The red spot of a laser appeared on John's chest. Relieved as he was that John wasn't behind the attacks, the situation wasn't really improved by the explosive device.

"What... would you like me...to make him say...next?" John spoke. Sherlock looked around the pool again for a sign of anyone else but there was no one. "Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer."

"Stop it," Sherlock barked, wishing that the smoke and mirrors would stop.

"Nice touch this, the pool where little Carl died," John repeated the words being spoken into his ear. "I stopped him." John cringed hearing the words he was to say next. "I can stop John Watson too." John glanced down at his chest where the red light still danced. "Stop his heart."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, still searching for a sign.

A different door opened at the opposite end of the swimming pool. Sherlock peered in that direction but he could only see the outline of a figure.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call," a mournful voice called. The figure walked along the end of the pool, coming more into the light. He was a dark-haired, smartly dressed man in his thirties, with menace in his eyes. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock pulled a pistol from his trouser pocket and aimed it at the man's head. "Both." The man paused in his walking and gazed back unfazed.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi." The greeting was high pitched and drawn out. Sherlock peered at the man more closely. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" He remembered now; Molly's seemingly gay boyfriend. Jim began to walk again with a look of disappointment. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that _was_ rather the point."

The laser from the sniper flickered over John's chest and Sherlock wondered how Jim was keeping tabs on everything.

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle," Jim explained, reaching the corner of the pool. "I don't like getting my hands dirty. However," he held out a finger and then pushed on the door behind him. "I made an exception with this one." He dragged something bodily into the room. "But she's special."

Only when Jim pulled her into an upright position did Sherlock recognise her; it was Hermione. The girl stared at him with wide, pained eyes and he could understand why. Her right forearm was bandaged, but large red stains on the material showed that she'd suffered quite an extensive wound. When Jim forced her into a standing position she winced and lifted the weight off of her left ankle, which meant it was likely to be sprained or broken.

Sherlock lowered the gun slightly but when Moriarty grinned at him he trained the gun at his head, using both hands to steady his aim.

"Oh, yes," Moriarty purred, rubbing a lock of Hermione's hair between his fingers. "Even among her own people she's special." He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply and then smiled. "You won't believe the things I've discovered thanks to our lovely Miss Granger here. But," he held up a hand, "I don't want to spoil the surprise. I'll let you tell them in your own time, Hermione dear. However boys, if you get tired of waiting I've written a little clue on her arm to help you along."

Sherlock glanced at Hermione's bloodied arm, realising what Jim had put her through.

Jim started to walk forward again. When Hermione didn't move he pushed her slightly and she nearly stumbled to the ground.

"I might have broken her a bit though." He fixed an exaggeratedly guilty expression on his face and John clenched his fists, resolutely glaring at a spot straight in front of him. "Sorry!" Jim sang, taking a firm grip of Hermione's elbow and continuing to walk forwards.

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see," he adopted a look of surprised realisation, "like you!"

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" Sherlock said and Moriarty grinned at the joke. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so," Moriarty agreed, stopping still again.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock stated. "Brilliant."

Jim smiled proudly. "Isn't it? No-one ever gets to me – and no-one ever will."

"I did," Sherlock pointed out, cocking the pistol.

"You've come the closest," Jim admitted. "Now you're in my _way_."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did," Jim shrugged. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock; Daddy's had enough now!" His voice became high pitched and sing-song. Hermione shuddered next to him and Sherlock noticed that blood was dripping freely from her hand now.

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play." John closed his eyes briefly and Sherlock knew that John was finding his helplessness unbearable. Jim walked forward again. "So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." His serious expression broke into a smile. "Although I have _loved_ this – this little game of ours. Playing the creepy stalker." He kissed Hermione's temple, seemingly enjoying watching her squirm and then adopted his London accent for a moment. "Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock pointed out.

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty screamed the last word furiously, his amused persona gone in a flash. John flinched and Hermione whimpered but Sherlock stayed still.

"I _will _stop you," Sherlock insisted.

"No you won't," Jim replied, calm once again.

Hermione whimpered again but whether it was because of her arm, ankle, the pincer grip Jim had on her arm, another injury or the general situation, Sherlock couldn't tell. "You all right?" he asked her. She nodded, though it was obvious that she wasn't. "John?"

John didn't even glance in his direction.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy," Moriarty announced, walking right up to him with Hermione in tow. "Go ahead."

But John didn't seem to want to follow any more of Moriarty's instructions and remained silent.

Sherlock needed to bring this to an end – Hermione and John wouldn't be able to take much more of this. He held out the memory stick towards Jim. "Take it."

Jim looked confused for a moment. "Huh? Oh, that!" He moved forward a couple of steps. "The missile plans!" He turned to Hermione. "Be a lamb and get them for me, Hermione."

She threw him an annoyed looked but obediently hobbled forward. She couldn't go far with Moriarty still gripping her elbow but it was just close enough. Blood dripped from her palm and she winced as she stretched out her hand for the memory stick. Sherlock moved forward to accommodate her.

She passed it to Jim. He brought it towards his mouth as though going to kiss it, but then he seemed to notice Hermione's blood on it and stopped just short. He lowered them slightly and then assumed a sing-song voice again. "Boring!" He shook his head. "I could have got them anywhere." He tossed the memory stick into the pool and John rushed forward while everyone was distracted. He kicked Hermione from Moriarty's grip and wrapped an arm around Moriarty's neck, forcing his back against the bomb strapped to his chest.

Sherlock stepped back in surprise as Hermione hit the ground with a pained cry.

"Run!" John ordered them and Sherlock stepped protectively in front of Hermione, keeping the gun trained at Jim's head.

Jim laughed excitedly. "_Good!_ Very good."

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," John pointed out angrily.

"Isn't he sweet?" Jim crooned, despite John's arm across his throat. "I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets." John pulled at Jim again and he scowled up at him. "They're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!" He grinned at John and Sherlock wondered why. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

John stared at Sherlock's forehead in dismay and Sherlock didn't need to guess that a red light now flickered there.

"Gotcha!" Jim sang.

John relinquished his grip on Moriarty and backed away with his hands held up.

Jim straightened out his suit indignantly. "Westwood!" he explained in annoyance. He looked past Sherlock and clicked his fingers. "Come here," he ordered.

Sherlock risked the tiniest glance over his shoulder at Hermione's sprawled figure. She wasn't looking at Moriarty. She gave a small sob but didn't move.

"Don't make me tell you again," Jim sang.

"Leave her alone," John pleaded angrily, his arms still held in the air.

Moriarty sent John a mischievous grin over his shoulder. "But it's amusing to have this control over her. Given what she's capable of, it's surprisingly easy to get her to do what you want."

Sherlock sensed Hermione pull herself to her feet. Moriarty looked at her with something akin to pride. "A lion's loyalty, boys," he crowed as she limped back to him again. "She really doesn't have to be here, you know. She could leave at any time she wants and I wouldn't be able to stop her."

He draped a casual arm over her shoulder, as a couple of Hermione's tears dropped to the floor. "Now, where were we?" He turned back to Sherlock. "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to _you?_"

"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock replied in a bored voice, "I get killed."

Jim grimaced. "Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you." His eyes ran up and down Sherlock's body before they took on a more deadly gaze. "I'll burn the _heart_ out of you," he snarled.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock responded smoothly.

"But we both know that's not quite true," Jim countered. He shrugged his shoulders and glanced around nonchalantly. "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now, right now?" Sherlock asked, extending the pistol closer to Moriarty's head.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty replied unfazed. He pulled his face into an obscene example of shock, then grinned. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would." He screwed up his nose. "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He moved backwards. "Wish I could keep this one with me for a bit longer," he murmured, looking fondly at Hermione, "see what I could really make her do." He removed his arm from around her shoulders and kissed the back of her head. "Ciao, Sherlock."

Moriarty walked calmly towards the door that John had entered earlier and Sherlock moved forwards to keep him in his sights. "Catch...you...later," he murmured.

The door opened. "No you won't!" Moriarty sang. The door closed.

Everyone held their breath for a moment, fearing that he would come back. When a few seconds had ticked past, Sherlock moved to John and started unfastening the bomb. "All right?" he asked and glanced over at Hermione who was still frozen to the spot. John breathed heavily but didn't answer. "Are you all right?" Sherlock repeated more insistently.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine," John breathed. "Help Hermione."

"You've got a bomb strapped to your chest," Sherlock reminded him, successfully unfastening the vest. He stood up and started yanking the jacket off of him.

"Sherlock," John muttered as the coat was tugged from his arms. "Sh-sherlock!" John staggered as the bomb was finally free from his body and Sherlock skimmed the jacket along the floor away from them all.

"Jesus," John said softly, turning to Hermione, who had sunk to her knees against the wall, shivering and crying silently. He took a step towards her but his legs started to give way and he held a hand out to the wall to steady himself. "Oh, Christ." He blew out a long breath. "It's okay, he's gone," he said as he sat next to her. She turned her face into his shoulder and cradled her arm to her chest. John put his arm around her shoulder. "You're safe."

Sherlock checked a door close by them for any sign of Moriarty but there was none. He paced up and down near John and Hermione, trying to get his mind over what had happened.

"Are _you_ okay?" John asked.

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine," he said quickly, still full of adrenaline. "I'm fine. Fine." He paused and looked at John. "That, er, _thing_ that you, er, that you did; that, um," he cleared his throat, "you offered to do for us. That was, um, good."

"I'm glad no one saw that." John said looking blankly ahead of himself.

Sherlock looked down at him in confusion. "Hmm?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk." John explained still not looking at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"People do little else." He looked at John and grinned. John snorted with laughter, the movement causing Hermione to whimper.

Sherlock crouched down next to her. "Hermione, I need to see your arm," he said softly, all mirth gone from his voice.

She took her head away from John's shoulder and gazed at him in fear. "No," she whispered. "I- I need to go to a hospital."

Sherlock nodded, not prepared to force the issue. "Let's go." He carefully pulled her to her feet, John starting to rise too.

She gasped, staring in horror at Sherlock's chest.

"Oh," John groaned in despair.

Sniper lasers were dancing over all of their chests.

A door at the end of the swimming pool opened and Moriarty walked in, clapping his hands. "Sorry, everyone!" he called brightly. "I'm sooooo changeable!"

With his back to Moriarty, Sherlock glanced up into the seating area to try and see how many snipers there were, but it was impossible to tell. There were more than enough though, judging by the two lights on John's chest, one on Hermione's and three on his own.

Jim laughed and raised his hands in acknowledgement. "It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness." Jim put his hands in his pockets and became more serious. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't."

Sherlock looked at John and Hermione and tried to anticipate what they would want him to do.

"I _would_ try to convince you but," he laughed and his voice became high-pitched again, "everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Hermione wouldn't meet Sherlock's eyes but John gave him a tiny nod. Sherlock turned to face Moriarty. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." He raised the pistol and aimed it at him.

Jim smiled confidently and Sherlock lowered the gun to point it at the jacket that contained the bomb.

"I'm letting Hermione live, by the way." Moriarty announced, causing the gun in Sherlock's hand to falter slightly. Hermione still held his other hand in a death grip and he glanced at her to see that not a single laser point remained on her body. "Her death will be a diplomatic incident that I _really_ can't be bothered with at the moment," Jim explained with a shrug.

Sherlock paused, unsure what to do. He and John would die here either way but if there was a chance Hermione might live then he couldn't set off the bomb.

Before he could make a decision, he felt Hermione's hand pull at him and twist. Then with a crack his world went black.

* * *

A/N Another cliffhanger! Kind of mean, I know. But at least you won't be waiting over a year like we had to with the show!

Please feel free to drop me a review!

Love,

Lil Drop of Magic


	9. Epilogue - The Hunt for Hermione

A/N Hi guys! Lots of amazing responses to the last chapter. Thank you! I won't keep you waiting any longer...

* * *

Epilogue - The Hunt for Hermione

It was as though his whole body was being crushed in on itself, like he was being forced through a tiny metal pipe. John had never expected death to feel like this and he'd come been very close to dying before, but that was the only explanation he could come up with for this sensation coupled with the sudden darkness.

And then he was home. He was in the lounge of 221B Baker Street, in the same semi-crouched position, halfway across London from where he'd just been. Hermione and Sherlock were there too, in the same stances as at the pool, but Sherlock looked as stunned as John felt. Hermione relinquished the grip she had on each of them, making John fall over.

"Wh-what..." he stammered. His brain just couldn't keep up with everything that had happened in the last hour.

"No, don't," Sherlock said urgently to Hermione as she took a couple of steps away from them, before turning round with a heartbroken look.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears still glistening in her eyes.

Then she was gone.

"Damn!" Sherlock cursed walking forward to where Hermione had just disappeared from.

"I, how," John stuttered, unable to form a coherent sentence. "Sherlock?"

"Believe me now?" Sherlock said, rounding on John in frustration.

"Yes," John gasped, pulling himself shakily to his feet. "But how can she do that?"

Sherlock turned round on the spot. "I still don't know," he muttered with a deep frown.

John felt his knees tremble again and he sat heavily on the armchair, closing his eyes. It was too much; first there was the 'game' they'd been through these last few days, then being abducted and having a bomb strapped to his chest, having to listen to Hermione's screams, the stand-off in the swimming pool and then teleporting across London. It was all just too much.

"Take off your top," Sherlock said suddenly.

John looked up at him in confusion, hoping that Sherlock hadn't just said what he'd heard. "I'm sorry, _what_?"

"Her blood is on it," Sherlock gave as an explanation, holding out his hand expectantly.

John glanced down at his arm and saw that there was a reddish stain on his sleeve where Hermione had held onto him to make them all disappear. "So what?"

"I want to run some tests on it," Sherlock replied, still waiting for the garment.

John ran a hand over his face. "We've just escaped from almost certain death. Can't you just… I don't know, pause for a moment?"

"I've waited long enough where Hermione is concerned," Sherlock said, taking a step forward. "I want answers _now_."

A familiar ringing sounded from Sherlock's coat pocket and John felt a rush of dread as the pink phone was brought into the open. The nightmare still wasn't over.

Sherlock held out the phone in front of him. "Hello?"

"I believe it's considered rude to leave without saying goodbye," the unmistakeable voice of Moriarty announced.

"We didn't think the threats to our lives were particularly polite either," Sherlock replied.

"No, I suppose you've got me there," Moriarty admitted. "I had half a mind to pop round and finish the job but you may as well know that today is not your day to die after all."

"How kind of you to reconsider," John muttered bitterly.

"Don't worry, Dr Watson, I'll certainly be in touch," Moriarty replied cheerfully. "Now pass me to Hermione, she left a certain item in my possession and I'd like to negotiate terms for its return."

John glanced at Sherlock as his friend paused. Should they tell Moriarty the truth?

"She's not here," Sherlock stated bluntly, "disappeared as soon as she brought us home."

"Disapparated."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his forehead creased in confusion.

"That's the correct term for what she did – it's called disapparation," Moriarty explained, the amusement evident in his voice. "And let me guess, she failed to explain _quite_ what's so special about herself before she popped out of your lives?" Their silence told him all he needed to know and he laughed. "What a _naughty_ girl!"

John tilted his head at the phone, silently indicating to Sherlock that they should just ask Moriarty about Hermione, but for some reason Sherlock shook his head.

"Well, I suppose I'd better be off, boys. Ta-ta for n– "

"Wait!" John blurted. "What do you know about Hermione? How is she so different?"

Sherlock cast an annoyed look at John while Moriarty exhaled loudly. "I would tell you, really I would, but it's much more entertaining to know that the _great_ Sherlock Holmes is utterly clueless about someone like Hermione sharing the same roof as him."

"We don't need your help," Sherlock insisted.

"If you say so. Happy hunting, boys!" Moriarty sang then the line went dead.

Sherlock threw the phone aside in annoyance and held out his hand again. "Your top. Now."

* * *

The door being opened with a bang startled John from his slumber.

"So this is where you go to find your answers?" a somewhat patronizing voice asked.

John gently massaged the back of his neck and looked blearily over at Mycroft.

"Go away," Sherlock muttered, not looking up from the computer screen that he was working on.

"You do realise that you've been in this lab for five days," Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's request.

John frowned. "It hasn't been five…" he looked down at his watch and made some calculations. "Oh." He tried to discreetly smell himself but Mycroft noticed.

"Yes, the polite word for the stench in this room would be overpowering," he commented.

"Well that explains why Molly hasn't been in for a while," John muttered, running a hand over his stubbly cheek. He got stiffly from his seat and stretched his arms. "Are you here to put us out of our misery about Hermione then?"

"Don't be naïve, John," Sherlock said, still staring at the computer.

John looked at Mycroft in disappointment. "You're not serious. She zips us halfway across London in a heartbeat and you're not going to tell us how?"

Mycroft regarded John for a moment. "And what would be the point?"

John opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock interrupted him.

"I'm not letting this go so feel free to make all the threats you like."

"I could have you arrested," Mycroft stated coming to stand closer to his brother. "You handed over highly confidential plans to an incredibly dangerous criminal."

"Why haven't you arrested me then?" Sherlock countered as he tapped on the computer's keyboard. "Is it because you'd have to explain how John, Hermione and I escaped from the swimming pool?"

Mycroft pursed his lips in annoyance.

"You'll never find her," he said in response.

"Who says I want to find her," Sherlock muttered.

"Is she all right?" John asked Mycroft. "Just tell us that."

Mycroft paused for a moment, possibly considering whether it was best to say anything or not. "She's alive and well as far as I know," he said eventually. "Back where she belongs."

"And where would that be?" John queried.

Mycroft smiled mysteriously at him but turned back to Sherlock. "You're wasting your time, brother. Even if the computer does produce something of interest it will be like having one tiny tile of a mosaic and you'll be completely unaware of the whole picture."

"Just how many people like Hermione are we talking about here?" Sherlock enquired nonchalantly. "Just so I know how big the gene pool is."

"Gene pool?" Mycroft repeated.

"Yes, there must be something different about her genetic makeup if you expect there to be a result from my tests," Sherlock replied. "Moriarty mentioned that she was special even amongst her 'own people' so I'm guessing there must be more than the two others that I already know about. That being said, the genetic mutation can't be too common otherwise it would be more widely known about."

Mycroft looked at his brother coldly but said nothing.

"So, she's like one of the _X-men_," John said, causing the brothers to look at him somewhat disparagingly. "Sorry, that's what I think of when someone mentions something about mutants, oh, and ninja turtles."

"Well she's not a reptilian ninja," Mycroft replied acidly.

"No, but she's seen her fair share of dangerous situations," Sherlock said. "The Chinese tong, the Golem, Moriarty – she kept a cool head through them all. Then there's her arm."

"The one Moriarty cut up?" John asked.

"No, the other one; a word had been carved into it before Moriarty. That's probably where he got the idea from."

"What word was it?" John enquired curiously.

"_Mudblood,_" Sherlock replied, "I'm unsure of its precise meaning but it's almost certainly an insult. So if she didn't do it to herself then she's got enemies of her own who seem to think that her blood is dirty in some way."

"People who know she's got this mutation?" John asked.

"Most likely," Sherlock agreed and turned to his brother. "Are there any secret government facilities that engineer genetically different humans, put them in dangerous scenarios and allow their subjects to get tortured?"

"No," Mycroft answered icily.

Sherlock looked at his brother thoughtfully. "Moriarty claimed that Hermione's death would be a diplomatic incident."

"Did he?" Mycroft replied, looking bored.

"Yes, _diplomatic_," Sherlock stressed, "not constitutional, political, bureaucratic or anything pertaining to government. It made it sound like she was of international interest."

"But she doesn't sound foreign," John pointed out.

"Exactly, John," Sherlock stated, watching his brother closely.

John furrowed his brow in confusion. "So she's not from another country."

"Unlikely," Sherlock shrugged.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Mycroft scoffed. "It's all hunches and guesses."

"_Deductions_," Sherlock clarified.

John was still struggling to understand what Sherlock had meant about the significance of diplomacy. "So Moriarty wasn't talking about dealing with the British government if Hermione died."

"Apparently not," Sherlock agreed.

"But… you mean he was talking about a completely different administration that still operates in this country?" John asked in disbelief.

Mycroft sighed noisily as John and Sherlock watched him closely. "This is pointless. Go home, Sherlock."

"_Jesus_," John gasped. "Are you serious? There's a whole secret society operating in Britain. How is that even possible?"

Mycroft ducked underneath the bench of the lab, much to John and Sherlock's confusion.

"What are you… _Mycroft!_" Sherlock barked, staring in dismay at his computer screen. John leaned forward to see that it was blank.

"I want all the samples you have of her DNA and I'm confiscating this." Mycroft stood, looking ridiculous as he hefted the computer tower in his arms.

"Do you honestly think that's going to stop me?" Sherlock snarled. "She's left DNA all over our flat."

"Good luck finding it," Mycroft replied airily. "Now, get me the samples."

Sherlock turned suddenly to look at John. "What did you say?"

John raised his eyebrows. "I didn't say anything."

"Earlier, you said something," Sherlock pointed.

"I've said lots of things," John replied in annoyance. "How am I supposed to remember one thing in particular?"

"Jesus," Sherlock said simply.

John shook his head. "Excuse me?"

"You said 'Jesus' earlier."

"So?"

"She said 'Merlin'," Sherlock pointed out.

"Who did?" John asked, completely confused.

"Sherlock, the DNA. Now," ordered Mycroft.

"Hermione did when Moriarty sent her that stalker-song," Sherlock explained.

"Does it matter?" John wondered, worried that his friend had lost the plot.

"Why did she say Merlin and not Jesus or something of that ilk?" Sherlock asked no one in particular.

"Maybe that's what young people say nowadays," John suggested weakly.

"The words we curse with are indications of our culture, our society," Sherlock said softly, ignoring John's comment and turning slowly to face Mycroft.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock," Mycroft scoffed.

John, as ever, felt like he was a few sentences behind the other two.

"It's true, isn't it?" Sherlock breathed, a look of wonder on his face. "It's the only explanation that makes even the slightest bit of sense…How long have you known about this?" he asked his brother in an accusatory tone.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mycroft retorted taking a step back.

"Anyone mind filling me in?" John asked crossly.

"Merlin, John. _Merlin_," Sherlock stressed turning to him.

John shrugged. "Yeah, the wizard, so wha-" He paused. "No." He shook his head slightly and pointed at Sherlock who was smiling. "You're not… you can't be…"

Sherlock nodded. "Magic."

* * *

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF Dr. John H. Watson

12 April

YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE

_A__nd so do we now. That sounds vaguely threatening, doesn't it? Well it's not meant to. Look, I know why you didn't tell us and why we haven't seen you since. Given who he is, it can't come as a surprise that Sherlock was determined to find the answer. If it makes you feel any better it's all Mycroft's fault – if he hadn't tried to interfere, Sherlock probably wouldn't have made all the links. I still find it incredible and part of me thinks this is some weird dream but it all makes a strange sort of sense. I just want to say that it doesn't change anything about how I think of you (that sounds very mushy, sorry). We both want to thank you for saving our lives. I don't know if I'll ever see you again, that's completely up to you. Just remember that if you ever need us we'll be here._

**Comments disabled**

* * *

**A/N** COMPLETE! Done! So, I kept it pretty quiet that this was going to be the last installment of this fic. But fear not (and hide away those pitchforks) because a sequel, _Murder at Hogwarts,_ is in the works! I had originally planned to just keep on going but at this point I think I can draw a line under everything that has happened, ready to start the next phase in Hermione's friendship with John and Sherlock. I probably won't start posting the sequel until it is all written. I'm estimating that it will be about the same length as this story but as I've only written the first two chapters there's going to be a few months to wait.

Thank you all again for the support you've shown this story. It has definitely been one of my favourites.

Lots of love,

Lil Drop of Magic


End file.
